UC-NRLF 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUI       , 


:- 


<Ijhe 


irjrw  TOKK 
D  .  Ji.PPLET05T    &   COMPA3TT 


THE 


POETICAL    WRITINGS 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK, 


WITH  EXTRACTS  FROM  THOSE  OF 


JOSEPH    RODMAN   DRAKE. 


EDITED    BY 

JAMES  GRANT  WILSON. 


NEW    YORK: 
D.    APPLETON     AND    COMPANY, 

i,   3,    AND    5    BOND    STREET. 

1882. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO. 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


PREFACE. 


IN  this  volume  will  be  found  all  the  poetical 
writings  of  the  late  Fixz- GREENE  HALLECK 
included  in  previous  editions,  together  with  a 
score  of  poems  which  the  editor  has  suc- 
ceeded in  recovering  from  various  sources, 
and  which  are  marked  by  the  character- 
istic grace  and  melody  of  his  most  admired 
compositions ;  also  several  translations  from 
the  French,  German,  and  Italian,  that  now 
appear  in  print  for  the  first  time.  Among 
the  pieces  never  before  published,  are  a  num- 
ber of  juvenile  productions,  which  may  be 
recognized  by  the  dates  appended  to  them. 
Between  the  earliest  poem  contained  in  this 
collection  and  the  latest,  a  period  of  three- 
score and  three  years  intervened.  "  The 
Tempest  "  was  written  by  the  handsome 
and  happy  schoolboy  of  fourteen,  in  the 


Vi  PREFA  CE. 

fourth  year  of  the  present  century ,  a  trans- 
lation from  the  German  was  made  by  the 
gray  -  haired  veteran  who  had  passed,  by 
seven  summers,  the  allotted  period  of  man's 
life;  while  Mr.  Halleck's  latest  original  poem 
— "  Young  America  " — was  written  near  the 
close  of  the  year  1863,  beneath  the  shadows 
of  the  same  grand  old  Guilford  elms  under 
which  the  poet  was  born  and  buried. 

"  THE  CROAKERS,"  that  now  appear  for  the 
first  time  with  Halleck's  poetical  writings,  are 
the  joint  production  of  the  attached  friends 
Fitz  -  Greene  Halleck  and  Joseph  Rodman 
Drake.  The  origin  of  these  sprightly  jeux 
d' esprit,  as  eagerly  looked  for  each  evening 
as  were  the  war-bulletins  of  a  later  day,  may 
not  be  without  interest  to  the  authors'  troops 
of  admirers.  Halleck  and  Drake  were  spend- 
ing a  Sunday  morning  with  Dr.  William  Lang- 
staff,  an  eccentric  apothecary  and  an  accom- 
plished mineralogist,  with  whom  they  were 
both  intimate  (the  two  last  mentioned  were 
previously  fellow-students  in  the  study  of 
medicine  with  Drs.  Bruce  and  Romayne); 
when  Drake,  for  his  own  and  his  friends' 


PREFA  CE. 

amusement,  wrote  several  burlesque 
"  To  Ennui,"  Halleck  answering  them  in  some 
lines  on  the  same  subject.  The  young  poets 
decided  to  send  their  .productions,  with  others 
of  the  same  character,  to  William  Coleman,  the 
editor  of  the  Evening  Post.  If  he  published 
them,  they  would  write  more ;  if  not,  they 
would  offer  them  to  Major  M.  M.  Noah,  of  the 
National  Advocate ;  and  if  he  declined  their 
poetical  progeny,  they  would  light  their  pipes 
with  them.  Drake  accordingly  sent  Coleman 
three  pieces  of  his  own,  signed  "  CROAKER," 
a  signature  adopted  from  an  amusing  charac- 
ter in  Goldsmith's  comedy  of  "The  Good- 
natured  Man."  To  their  astonishment,  a  para- 
graph appeared  in  the  Post  the  day  following, 
acknowledging  their  receipt,  promising  the 
insertion  of  the  poems,  pronouncing  them  to 
be  the  productions  of  superior  taste  and  genius, 
and  begging  the  honor  of  a  personal  acquaint- 
ance with  the  author.  The  lines  "  To  Ennui " 
appeared  March  10,  1819,  and  the  others  in 
almost  daily  succession  ;  those  written  by  Mr. 
Halleck  being  usually  signed  "  Croaker  Junior," 
white  those  which  were  their  joint  composition 


viii  PREFA  CE. 

generally  bore  the  signature  of  "  Croaker  and 
Co." 

The  remark  made  by  Coleman  had  excited 
public  attention,  and  "  THE  CROAKERS  "  soon 
became  a  subject  of  conversation  in  drawing- 
rooms,  book-stores,  coffee-houses,  on  Broad- 
way, and  throughout  the  city ;  they  were,  in 
short,  a  town  topic.  The  two  friends  contrib- 
uted other  pieces ;  and  when  the  editor  again 
expressed  great  anxiety  to  be  acquainted  with 
the  writer,  and  used  a  style  so  mysterious  as 
to  excite  their  curiosity,  the  literary  partners 
decided  to  call  upon  him.  Halleck  and  Drake 
accordingly,  one  evening,  went  together,  to 
Coleman's  residence  in  Hudson  Street,  and 
requested  an  interview.  They  were  ushered 
into  the  parlor,  the  editor  soon  entered,  the 
young  poets  expressed  a  desire  for  a  few  min- 
utes' strictly  private  conversation  with  him,  and 
the  door  being  closed  and  locked,  Dr.  Drake 
said — "  I  am  Croaker,  and  this  gentleman,  sir, 
is  Croaker  Junior."  Coleman  stared  at  the 
young  men  with  indescribable  and  unaffected 
astonishment, — at  length  exclaiming  :  "  My 
God,  I  had  no  idea  that  we  had  such  talents 


PREFACE. 


in  America  !  "  Halleck,  with  his  characteristic 
modesty,  was  disposed  to  give  to  Drake  all  the 
credit  ;  but  as  it  chanced  that  Coleman  alluded 
in  particularly  glowing  terms  to  one  of  the 
Croakers  that  was  wholly  his,  he  was  forced  to 
be  silent,  and  the  delighted  editor  continued 
in  a  strain  of  compliment  and  eulogy  that  put 
them  both  to  the  blush.  Before  taking  their 
leave,  the  poets  bound  Coleman  over  to  the 
most  profound  secrecy,  and  arranged  a  plan  of 
sending  him  the  MS.,  and  of  receiving  the 
proofs,  in  a  manner  that  would  avoid  the  least 
possibility  of  the  secret  of  their  connection 
with  "THE  CROAKERS"  being  discovered. 
The  poems  were  copied  from  the  originals  by 
Langstaff,  that  their  handwriting  should  not 
divulge  the  secret,  •  and  were  either  sent 
through  the  mail,  or  taken  to  the  Evening- 
Post  office  by  Benjamin  R.  Winthrop,  then  a 
fellow-clerk  with  Mr.  Halleck,  in  the  counting- 
house  of  the  well-known  banker  and  merchant 
Jacob  Barker,  in  Wall  Street. 

Hundreds  of  imitations  of  "  THE  CROAK- 
ERS  "  were  daily  received  by  the  different  editors 
of  New  York,  to  all  of  which  they  gave  publicly 


x  PREFA  CE. 

one  general  answer,  that  they  lacked  the 
genius,  spirit,  and  beauty  of  the  originals.  On 
one  occasion  Coleman  showed  Halleck  fifteen 
he  had  received  in  a  single  morning,  all 
of  which,  with  a  solitary  exception,  were  con- 
signed to  the  waste-basket  The  friends  con- 
tinued for  several  months  to  keep  the  city  in  a 
blaze  of  excitement ;  and  it  was  observed  by 
one  of  the  editors,  "  that  so  great  was  the 
wincing  and  shrinking  at  'THE  CROAKERS,' 
that  every  person  was  on  tenter-hooks ;  neither 
knavery  nor  folly  has  slept  quietly  since  our 
first  commencement."  Of  this  series  of  satiri- 
cal and  quaint  chronicles  of  New- York  life  half 
a  century  ago,  Halleck,  in  1 866,  said  "  that 
they  were  good-natured  verses  contributed 
anonymously  to  the  columns  of  the  New- York 
Evening  Post,  from  March  to  June,  1819,  and 
occasionally  afterward.  The  writers  con- 
tinued, like  the  author  of  Junius,  the  sole  de- 
positaries of  their  own  secret,  and  apparently 
wished,  with  the  Minstrel  in  Leyden's  "  Scenes 
of  Infancy,"  to 

"  Save  others'  names,  but  leave  their  own  unsung." 

Among  "  THE  CROAKERS  "  will  be  found  three 


PREFACE.  xi 

hitherto  unpublished  pieces  from  the  pen  of 
Mr.  Halleck,  and,  in  lieu  of  the  original  signa- 
tures, the  author  of  each  poem  is  now  for  the 
first  time  made  known  by  the  letters  H  and  D  ; 
when  both  letters  occur,  they  indicate  the  joint 
authorship  of  the  literary  partners,  or,  to  quote 
Halleck's  familiar  words  to  a  friend,  "  that  we 
each  had  a  finger  in  the  pie." 

FlTZ-GREENE,  a  descendant  of  PETER  HAL- 
LECK or  HALLOCK,  one  of  thirteen  Pilgrim  Fa- 
thers who  landed  at  New  Haven,  Connecticut,  in 
1640,  and  of  the  Rev.  John  Eliot,  the  "Apostle 
to  the  Indians,"  who  arrived  at  Boston,,  Massa- 
chusetts, in  1 63 1 ,  was  one  of  the  earliest,  as  he 
was  among  the  most  eminent,  of  American 
poets.  He  left  no  son  to  wear  his  honors,  or 
to  perpetuate  his  name,  but,  unlike  his  favorite 
Rot  d'  Yvetot,  there  is  little  danger  of  his  being 
"  peu  connu  dans  Vhistoire"  When  all  those 
whose  privilege  it  was  to  know  the  genial  poet, 
and  to  have  been  honpred  by  his  friendship, 
shall  have  passed  away,  and  when  the  endur- 
ing granite  obelisk  which  now  marks  his  grave 
shall  have  crumbled  to  dust,  the  name  and 
fame  of  the  sweet  singer  who  celebrated  in  im- 


xii  PREFACE. 

mortal  song  the  glories  of  the  modern  Epami- 
nondas,  will  remain  fresh  and  green,  not  only 
in  the  country  of  his  birth,  but  in  the  land  of 
Bozzaris.  In  England,  his  "Alnwick  Castle," 

'*  Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race," 

will  long  preserve  his  name  from  oblivion; 
while  in  Scotland,  the  song  he  sang  in  praise 
of  Burns  will  forever  connect  him  with  her 
greatest  poet.-  "  Nothing  finer  has  been 
written  about  Robert  than  Mr.  Halleck's 
poem,"  said  Isabella,  the  youngest  sister  of 
the  Ayrshire  bard,  as  she  gave  the  writer,  in 
the  summer  of  1855,  some  rose-buds  from  her 
garden,  and  leaves  of  ivy  plucked  from  her 
cottage  door,  near  the  banks  of  the  bonny 
Doon,  to  carry  back  to  his  gifted  friend. 
Neither  will  those  exquisitely  beautiful  and 
tender  lines,  so  familiar  to  all,  in  which  the  ear- 
ly death  of  his  chosen  companion  and  literary 
partner,  Dr.  Drake,  was  mourned  by  Mr.  Hil- 
leck,  be  soon  forgotten.  They  are,  and  will 
continue  to  be,  an  enduring  monument  to  both 
the  poets,  wherever  the  English  language  is 
read  or  spoken.  Like  Thomas  Campbell, 


PREFACE.  xiii 

whose  poetical  writings  he  so  much  admired, 
Fitz- Greene  Halleck  gave  to  the  world  but  few 
poems  — "  heirlooms  forever  "  to  be  prized 
and  cherished  by  his  countrymen  through  the 
coming  ages  and  generations,  with 

"  Earth's  and  sea's  rich  gems, 
With  April's  first-born  flowers, 
And  all  things  rare." 

The  arrangement  of  the  poems,  as  made  by 
the  poet  in  the  last  edition  of  "1858,  has  been 
closely  followed  in  this  volume,  without  refer- 
ence to  their  chronological  order ;  and  in  other 
particulars  the  present  publication  has  been 
made  to  conform  to  Mr.  Halleck's  wishes,  as 
expressed  to  the  writer  at  their  last  interview, 
but  a  few  weeks  before 

"  He  gave  his  honors  to  the  world  again, 
His  blessed  part  to  heaven,  and  slept  in  peace." 

The  share  of  the  editor  in  this  volume  can 
scarcely  be  regarded  too  slightly.  He  cannot 
even  claim  the  credit  for  the  notes,  as  a  por- 
tion of  them  were  prepared  by  the  poet  him- 
self. Among  the  notes  to  the  Miscellaneous 
Poems,  the  first  nine  will  be  recognized  as 


xiv  PREFA  CE. 

having  appeared  in  all  previous  editions,  while 
the  notes  to  "  Fanny  "and  "The  Recorder" 
are,  with  a  few  slight  alterations  and  additions, 
substantially  Mr.  Halleck's ;  and  to  him,  there- 
fore, the  editor  trusts  will  be  awarded  the 
credit  for  whatever  may  be  found  among 
them  worthy  of  praise. 

51   ST.  MARK'S  PLACE, 

New  York,  August,  1868 


CONTENTS 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

^^^JLaico  Bozzaris,  .  .  .  .  •  •  «  J3 

Alnwick  Castle, .18 

Burns,               ......  .23 

Wyoming,  .  .  .  .  .  •  •  3° 

_—— .  On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  .  •  34 

Twilight,  .....  «36 

Psalm  CXXXVII., 38 

To****,  .  .  .  •  .40 

The  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms,  .  .  .  .  .  41 

Red  Jacket,.  ...  .  .46 

Love, -Si 

A  Sketch, .53 

Domestic  Happiness,  .  .  .  •  •  •  •  55 

Magdalen, 57 

From  the  Italian,          .......     60 

Translation,  .......  6a 

Woman, •  •  64 

A  Poet's  Daughter,  .....  66 

Connecticut,  .  .  .  .  .  •  «  •  7° 

Music, .84 

On  the  Death  of  Lieut.  Allen,            -           .            .  .            .87 

To  Walter  Bowne,  Esq.,  ....  . .         89 

The  Iron  Grays,  .  .  •  93 

An  Epistle  to  ****,.  .  •  •  •  Q5 


XV'i  CONTENTS.      • 

PAGI 

FANNY,                       .......  xoi 

THE  RECORDER,   .                       ......  161 

YOUNG  AMERICA,       ,           .           .           .           ,           ...  177 
ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 

A  Fragment,  ........  195 

Song,         ........  197 

Song, 199 

Address,    ........  200 

The  Rhyme  of  the  Ancient  Coaster,            ....  203 

Lines  to  her  who  can  understand  them,             .            .            .  209 

Translation  from  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo,         .            .            .  212 

Album  Verses,      ."......  213 

Ode  to  Good-Humor,            ......  215 

From  the  French  of  General  Lallemand,          .              .            .  217 
The  Vision  of  Eliphaz,          .            .            .            .            .            .219 

'  A  Poetical  Epistle,           .                        ....  222 

The  Bluebird,             .                        .....  224 

Honor  to  Woman,            ......  227 

To  Ellen, 228 

Memory,  ........  231 

Religion,         .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .233 

The  Tempest,       .......  236 

Lines  written  on  a  blank  leaf  in  Ossian's  Poems,   .             .            .  239 

In  her  Island  Home,        ......  240 

Translation  from  the  German,           .....  242 

Forget-Me-Not^  .                                    .                                    .  244 

The  Pilgrims,              .                                                            .            .  245 

A  Farewell  to  Connecticut,         .....  247 

To  Louis  Gaylord  Clark,  Esq.,         .....  249 

THE  CROAKERS. 

To  Ennui,            .......  255 

On  presenting  the  Freedom  of  the  City  to  a  Great  General,         .  257 

The  Secret  Mine,             ......  259 

Bony's  Fight, 261 

To  Mr.  Potter,    .                       .....  264 


CONTENTS,  XVU 

THE  CROAKERS— (Continued).  PAOK 

To  Mr.  Simpson,  ......  266 

The  National  Painting,          ....  .268 

The  Battery  War,  .  ....          270 

To  Croaker,  Junior, 272 

A  very  Modest  Letter  from  one  Great  Man  to  another,  .  273 

To  the  Surgeon-General  of  the  State  of  New  York,  .  .     276 

To  John  Minshull,  Esq., 278 

The  Man  who  frets  at  Worldly  Strife,          .  .  .  .280 

To  E.  Simpson,  Esq.,      .  ...  282 

To  John  Lang,  Esq.,  .  ...    284 

To  Domestic  Peace,         .  .  .  .  286 

To  E.  Simpson,  Esq.,  .....    288 

To  Captain  Seaman  Weeks,        .....  290 

Abstract  of  the  Surgeon-General's  Report,  .  .  .292 

To  an  Elderly  Coquette,  .....  294 

To  *  *  *  * ,  Esquire,  ....  .296 

Ode  to  Impudence,  .  ...  298 

To  Mrs.  Barnes,         ...  .  .     300 

To  Simon,  .  3°3 

A  Loving  Epistle  to  Mr.  Wm.  Cobbett,        .  .  .  .     306 

The  Forum •.  .  .308 

Ode  to  Fortune,         .  .  .  .  .  .  .    311 

The  Love  of  Notoriety,  .  .  .  .  .  •  3T3 

An  Ode  to  Simeon  De  Witt,  Esq.,  .  ...  .  .     315 

To  E.  Simpson,  Esq.,      ....  .319 

The  Council  of  Appointment  at  Albany,     ....     323 

The  Militia  of  the  City,  .....  326 

An  Address  for  the  Opening  of  the  New  Theatre,          .  .     328 

Epistle  to  Robert  Hogbin,  Esq.,  ....  331 

Lamentings,  .  ...    333 

To  Quackery,.      ....  ...  335 

To  the  Directors  of  the  Academy  of  Arts,   ....     337 

Cutting,    ........  340 

The  Dinner-Party,    .......     342 

The  Nightmare,  .......  345 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

THE  CROAKERS— (Continued).  PAGB 

The  Modern  Hydra,  .            .            .            .            .            .  -347 

The  Tea-Party,    .......  349 

The  Meeting  of  the  Grocers,            .           .           .        •   .  .    351 

The  King  of  the  Doctors,           .  352 
To  the  Baron  von  Hoffman,              .                        ...    354 

A  Lament  for  Great  Men  departed,        ....  356 

The  Great  Moral  Picture,     .           .           .           .           .  .359 

Governor  Clinton's  Speech,        .            .            ,            .            .  362 

NOTES. 

Miscellaneous  Poems,  ......     369 

Fanny,      ....                        ...  371 

The  Recorder,            .            -            .            .            .            .  .376 

The  Croakers,     .             ......  377 

INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES              .           .           .           .           .  .387 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


MARCO  BOZZARIS.1 

|T  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power: 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring : 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 
Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 

True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 
Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 

There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 


MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Plataea's  day ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"To  arms!  they  come !  the  Greek!  the  Greek!" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre- stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : 
"  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

God — and  your  native  land !  " 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain, 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 


MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 
Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal-chamber,  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels. 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean-storm ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance  and  wine ; 
And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

« 
But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood  bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 


1 6  MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men  : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese. 
When  the  land  wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral-weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb : 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved  and  for  a  season  gone ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace-couch  and  cottage-bed ; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow  j 


MARCO  BOZZARIS, 

His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears : 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys. 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's ; 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


ALNWICK  CASTLE." 

JOME  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race, 
Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial-place, 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave  ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 
•     As  in  his  proud  departed  hours  ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  "  flout  the  sky  " 
Above  his  princely  towers. 

A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 
To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 

Through  this  romantic  scene 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still, 
As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 

While  summer's  wind  blew  soft  and  low, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katherine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 


ALNWICK  CASTLE. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile : 

Does  not  the  succoring  ivy,  keeping 
Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 

As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping  ? 
One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 
The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percy's  proudest  border  story. 
Th  at  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum ; 
And  babe,  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hymn,  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 

Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 


Wild  roses  by  the  Abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom : 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral-flowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long- gone  hours, 

A  templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damped  with  his  dying  breath, 
When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine, 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

2 


2O  ALNWICK  CASTLE. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  tales,  if  there  be  "tongues  in  trees,' 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here ; 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 

The  welcome  and  farewell, 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 

The  Norman's  curfew-bell ! 

I  wandered  through  the  lofty  halls 

Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 
And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high,  heroic  name, 
From  him3  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons  ; 
To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son, 
Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington,4 

A  major  of  dragoons. 

That  last  half  stanza— it  has  dashed     . 

From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup ; 
The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  flashed, 

The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 
Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone ; 
And  Alnwick's  but  a  market  town, 
And  this,  alas  !  its  market  day. 


ALNWICK  CASTLE. 

And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way ; 
Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line ; 
From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land, 
From  royal  Berwick's5  beach  of  sand, 
From  Wooller,  Morpeth,  Hexham,  and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser's  rhymes, 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy : 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  not  fable,    • 
Of  knights,  but  not  of  the  round  table, 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy : 
'Tis  what  "our  President,"  Monroe, 

Has  called  "  the  era  of  good  feeling :  " 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow, 
Consented  to  be  taxed,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat, 

And  leave  off  cattle-stealing : 
Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Douglass  in  red  herrings ; 
And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 
Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal-band, 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 


21 


22  ALNWICK  CASTLE. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come :  to-day  the  turbaned  Turk 
(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally ; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar-stone, 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die ; 
And  not  a  sabre-blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You'll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state  ? 
The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "gentle  Kate," 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving-men 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye,  . 

And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  Nature's  aristocracy ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal, 
Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 
For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 


BURNS. 


TO  A  ROSE,  BROUGHT  FROM  NEAR  ALLOW  AY  KIRK,  IN 
AYRSHIRE,  IN  THE  AUTUMN  OF  1 822. 


|ILD  Rose  of  Alloway  !  my  thanks; 

Thou  'mindst  me  of  that  autumn  noon 
When  first  we  met  upon  "  the  banks 
And  braes  o'  bonny  Doon." 

Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief, 

We've  crossed  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  withered — flower  and  leaf. 

And  will  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of  clay — 

And  withered  my  life's  leaf  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Alloway  ? 

Not  so  his  memory,  for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long, 

His — who  a  humbler  flower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song, 


24  BURNS. 

The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 
That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she's  canonized  his  mind ; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  human  kind. 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage-bed 
Where  the  Bard-peasant  first  drew  breath ; 

A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 

His  monument — that  tells  to  Heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  Bard-peasant  given ! 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour ; 

And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  Poet's  pride  and  power : 

The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 

Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birth, 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong; 


BURNS.  25 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 

Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 
Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 

The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires : 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 

Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek  ; 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 
The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  of  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 

Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 
And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 

The  Poet's  mastery 


26  BURNS. 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage -hearth  ? 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  is  sung ! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's  "  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 


And  Burns — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 

Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 

Through  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures — the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel  ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth. 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward  and  of  slave ; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard  !  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 


28  BURNS. 

Praise  to  the  man !  a  nation  stood 

Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 
Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral-day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 
Crowned  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warridrs  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour ; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 

Is  lit  by  fortune's  dimmer  star, 
Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 

From  countries  near  and  far; 


BURNS.  29 

Pilgrims  whose  wandering  feet  have  pressed 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 
My  own  green  forest-land. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 
Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Doon's  low  trees, 
And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 

And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries  ! 
The  poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 
His  funeral  columns,  wreaths  and  urns  ? 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns  ? 


WYOMING.6 

"  Dites  si  la  Nature  n'a  pas  fait  ce  beau  pays  potir  une  Julie,  pour  une 
Claire,  et  pour  un  St.  Preux,  mais  ne  les  y  cherchtz  pas." 

ROUSSEAU. 

I. 

|HOU  com'st,  in  beauty,  on  my  gaze  at  last, 

"  On  Susquehanna's  side,  fair  Wyoming !  " 
Image  of  many  a  dream,  in  hours  long  past, 
When  life  was  in  its  bud  and  blossoming, 
And  waters,  gushing  from  the  fountain-spring 
Of  pure  enthusiast  thought,  dimmed  my  young  eyes, 
As  by  the  poet  borne,  on  unseen  wing, 
I  breathed,  in  fancy,  'neath  thy  cloudless  skies, 
The  summer's  air,  and  heard  her  echoed  harmonies. 

n. 

I  then  but  dreamed :  thou  art  before  me  now, 
In  life,  a  vision  of  the  brain  no  more. 
I've  stood  upon  the  wooded  mountain's  brow, 
That  beetles  high  thy  lovely  valley  o'er ; 
And  now,  where  winds  thy  river's  greenest  shore, 
Within  a  bower  of  sycamores  am  laid ; 
And  winds,  as  soft  and  sweet  as  ever  bore 
The  fragrance  of  wild  flowers  through  sun  and  shade, 
A.re  singing  in  the  trees,  whose  low  boughs  press  my  head. 


WYOMING.  ^ ! 

III. 

Nature  hath  made  thee  lovelier  than  the  power 
Even  of  Campbell's  pen  hath  pictured :  Jie 
Had  woven,  had  he  gazed  one  sunny  hour 
Upon  thy  smiling  vale,  its  scenery 
With  more  of  truth,  and  made  each  rock  and  tree 
Known  like  old  friends,  and  greeted  from  afar : 
And  there  are  tales  of  sad  reality, 
In  the  dark  legends  of  thy  border  war, 
With  woes  of  deeper  tint  than  his  own  Gertrude's  are. 

IV. 

But  where  are  they,  the  beings  of  the  mind, 
The  bard's  creations,  moulded  not  of  clay, 
Hearts  to  strange  bliss  and  suffering  assigned — 
Young  Gertrude,  Albert,  Waldegrave  —  where  are 

they? 

We  need  not  ask.     The  people  of  to-day 
Appear  good,  honest,  quiet  men  enough, 
And  hospitable  too — for  ready  pay ; 
With  manners  like  their  roads,  a  little  rough, 
And  hands  whose  grasp  is  warm  and  welcoming,  though 

tough. 

v. 

Judge  Hallenbach,  who  keeps  the  toll-bridge  gate, 
And  the  town  records,  is  the  Albert  now 
Of  Wyoming :  like  him,  in  church  and  state, 
Her  Doric  column ;  and  upon  his  brow 


32  WYOMING. 

The  thin  hairs,  white  with  seventy  winters'  snow, 
Look  patriarchal.     Waldegrave  'twere  in  vain 
To  point  out  here,  unless  in  yon  scare-crow, 
That  stands  full-uniformed  upon  the  plain, 
To  frighten  flocks  of  crows  and  blackbirds  from  the 
grain. 

VI. 

For  he  would  look  particularly  droll 
In  his  "Iberian  boot"  and  "  Spanish  plume," 
And  be  the  wonder  of  each  Christian  soul 
As  of  the  birds  that  scare-crow  and  his  broom. 
But  Gertrude,  in  her  loveliness  and  bloom, 
Hath  many  a  model  here ;  for  woman's  eye, 
In  court  or  cottage,  wheresoe'er  her  home, 
Hath  a  heart-spell  too  holy  and  too  high 
To  be  o'erpraised  even  by  her  worshipper — Poesy. 

VII. 

There's  one  in  the  next  field — of  sweet  sixteen — 
Singing  and  summoning  thoughts  of  beauty  born 
In  heaven — with  her  jacket  of  light  green, 
"Love-darting  eyes,  and  tresses  like  the  morn," 
Without  a  shoe  or  stocking — hoeing  corn. 
Whether,  like  Gertrude,  she  oft  wanders  there, 
With  Shakespeare's  volume  in  her  bosom  borne, 
I  think  is  doubtful.     Of  the  poet-player 
The  maiden  knows  no  more  than  Cobbett  or  Voltaire. 


WYOMING.  23 

VIII. 

There  is  a  woman,  widowed,  gray,  and  old, 
Who  tells  you  where  the  foot  of  Battle  stepped 
Upon  their  day  of  massacre.     She  told 
Its  tale,  and  pointed  to  the  spot,  and  wept, 
Whereon  her  father  and  five  brothers  slept 
Shroudless,  the  bright-dreamed  slumbers  of  the  brave, 
When  all  the  land  a  funeral  mourning  kept. 
And  there,  wild  laurels  planted  on  the  grave 
By  Nature's  hand,  in  air  their  pale-red  blossoms  wave. 

IX. 

And  on  the  margin  of  yon  orchard  hill 
Are  marks  where  timeworn  battlements  have  been, 
And  in  the  tall  grass  traces  linger  still 
Of  "arrowy  frieze  and  wedged  ravelin." 
Five  hundred  of  her  brave  that  valley  green 
Trod  on  the  morn  in  soldier-spirit  gay ; 
But  twenty  lived  to  tell  the  noonday  scene — 
And  where  are  now  the  twenty  ?    Passed  away. 
Has  Death  no  triumph  hours,  save  on  the  battle-day  ? 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF 


JOSEPH     RODMAN    DRAKE, 

OF  NEW  YORK,   SEPT.,   1820. 


"  The  good  die  first, 

And  they,  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket." 

WORDSWORTH. 


|REEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long,, where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth ; 

And  I  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE.  35 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine  : 


It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


TWILIGHT. 

[HERE  is  an  evening  twilight  of  the  heart, 

When  its  wild  passion-waves  are  lulled  to  rest, 
And  the  eye  sees  life's  fairy  scenes  depart, 
As  fades  the  daybeam  in  the  rosy  west. 
Tis  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  regret 

We  gaze  upon  them  as  they  melt  away, 
And  fondly  would  we  bid  them  linger  yet, 

But  Hope  is  round  us  with  her  angel  lay, 
Hailing  afar  some  happier  moonlight  hour ; 
Dear  are  her  whispers  still,    though  lost  their  early 
power. 

In  youth  her  cheek  wi\s  crimsoned  with  her  glow ; 

Her  smile  was  loveliest  then ;  her  matin  song 
Was  heaven's  own  music,  and  the  note  of  woe 

Was  all  unheard  her  sunny  bowers  among. 
Life's  little  world  of  bliss  was  newly  born; 

We  knew  not,  cared  not,  it  was  born  to  die, 
Flushed  with  the  cool  breeze  and  the  dews  of  morn, 

With  dancing  heart  we  gazed  on  the  pure  sky, 
And  mocked  the  passing  clouds  that  dimmed  its  blue, 
Like  our  own  sorrows  then — as  fleeting  and  as  few. 


TWILIGHT.  37 

And  manhood  felt  her  sway  too — on  the  eye, 

Half  realized,  her  early  dreams  burst  bright, 
Her  promised  bower  of  happiness  seemed  nigh, 

Its  days  of  joy,  its  vigils  of  delight; 
And  though  at  times  might  lower  the  thunder-storm, 

And  the  red  lightnings  threaten,  still  the  air 
Was  balmy  with  her  breath  and  her  loved  form, 

The  rainbow  of  the  heart  was  hovering  there. 
'Tis  in  life's  noontide  she  is  nearest  seen, 
Her  wreath  the  summer  flower,  her  robe  of  summer 
green. 

But  though  less  dazzling  in  her  twilight  dress, 

There's  more  of  heaven's  pure  beam  about  her  now ; 
That  angel-smile  of  tranquil  loveliness, 

Which  the  heart  worships,  glowing  on  her  brow ; 
That  smile  shall  brighten  the  dim  evening  star 

That  points  our  destined  tomb,  nor  e'er  depart 
Till  the  faint  light  of  life  is  fled  afar, 

And  hushed  the  last  deep  beating  of  the  heart : 
The  meteor-bearer  of  our  parting  breath, 
A  moonbeam  in  the  midnight  cloud  of  death. 


PSALM    CXXXVII. 

"  By  the  rivers  of  Babylon." 

|E  sat  us  down  and  wept, 

Where  Babel's  waters  slept, 
we  thought  of  home  and  Zion  as  a  long-gone, 

happy  dream ; 
We  hung  our  harps  in  air 
On  the  willow-boughs,  which  there, 
Gloomy  as  round  a  sepulchre,  were  drooping  o'er  the 
stream. 

The  foes  whose  chain  we  wore, 

Were  with  us  on  that  shore, 
Exulting  in  our  tears  that  told  the  bitterness  of  woe. 

"  Sing  us,"  they  cried  aloud, 

"  Ye  once  so  high  and  proud, 
The  songs  ye  sang  in  Zion  ere  we  laid  her  glory  low." 

And  shall  the  harp  of  heaven 
To  Judah's  monarch  given 

Be  touched  by  cuptive  fingers,   or  grace  a  fettered 
hand? 


PSALM  CXXXVII.          ,  2Q 

No  !  sooner  be  my  tongue 
Mute,  powerless,  and  unstrung, 

Than  its  words  of  holy  music  make  glad  a  stranger 
land. 

May  this  right  hand,  whose  skill 

Can  wake  the  harp  at  will, 

And  bid  the  listener's  joys  or  griefs  in  light  or  darkness 
come, 

Forget  its  godlike  power, 

If  for  one  brief,  dark  hour, 
My  heart  forgets  Jerusalem,  fallen  city  of  my  home  ! 

Daughter  of  Babylon  I 

Blessed  be  that  chosen  one, 

Whom  God  shall  send  to  smite  thee  when  there  is  none 
to  save : 

He  from  the  mother's  breast, 

Shall  pluck  the  babe  at  rest, 
And  lay  it  in  the  sleep  of  death  beside  its  father's  grave. 


TO   ****. 

jHE  world  is  bright  before  thee, 
Its  summer  flowers  are  thine, 
Its  calm  blue  sky  is  o'er  thee, 

Thy  bosom  Pleasure's  shrine  ; 
And  thine  the  sunbeam  given 
To  Nature's  morning  hour, 
Pure,  warm,  as  when  from  heaven 
It  burst  on  Eden's  bower. 

There  is  a  song  of  sorrow, 

The  death-dirge  of  the  gay, 
That  tells,  ere  dawn  of  morrow, 

These  charms  may  melt  away, 
That  sun's  bright  beam  be  shaded, 

That  sky  be  blue  no  more, 
The  summer  flowers  be  faded, 

And  youth's  warm  promise  o'er. 

Believe  it  not — though  lonely 

Thy  evening  home  may  be ; 
Though  Beauty's  bark  can  only 

Float  on  a  summer  sea ; 
Though  Time  thy  bloom  is  stealing, 

There's  still  beyond  his  art 
The  wild-flower  wreath  of  feeling, 

The  sunbeam  of  the  heart. 


THE  FIELD   OF   THE   GROUNDED   ARMS. 

SARATOGA. 

|  TR ANGERS  !  your  eyes  are  on  that  valley  fixed 

Intently,  as  we  gaze  on  vacancy, 
When  the  mind's  wings  o'erspread 
The  spirit-world  of  dreams. 

True,  'tis  a  scene  of  loveliness— the  bright 
Green  dwelling  of  the  summer's  first-born  Hours, 

Whose  wakened  leaf  and  bud 

Are  welcoming  the  morn. 

And  morn  returns  the  welcome,  sun  and  cloud 
Smile  on  the  green  earth  from  their  home  in  heaven, 

Even  as  a  mother  smiles 

Above  her  cradled  boy, 

And  wreath  their  light  and  shade  o'er  plain  and  moun- 
tain, 
O'er  sleepless  seas  of  grass,  whose  waves  are  flowers, 

The  river's  golden  shores, 

The  forest  of  dark  pines. 


4.2  THE  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 

The  song  of  the  wild  bird  is  on  the  wind, 
The  hum  of  the  wild  bee,  the  music  wild 
.     Of  waves  upon  the  bank, 
Of  leaves  upon  the  bough. 

But  all  is  song  and  beauty  in  the  land, 
Beneath  her  skies  of  June;  then  journey  on, 

A  thousand  scenes  like  this 

Will  greet  you  ere  the  eve. 

Ye  linger  yet — ye  see  not,  hear  not  now, 
The  sunny  smile,  the  music  of  to-day, 

Your  thoughts  are  wandering  up, 

Far  up  the  stream  of  time ; 

And  boyhood's  lore  and  fireside-listened  tales 
Are  rushing  on  your  memories,  as  ye  breathe 
That  valley's  storied  name, 
FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 

Strangers  no  more,  a  kindred  "pride  of  place," 
Pride  in  the  gift  of  country  and  of  name, 

Speaks  in  your  eye  and  step — 

Ye  tread  your  native  land. 

And  your  high  thoughts  are  on  her  glory's  day, 

The  solemn  sabbath  of  the  week  of  battle, 

% 
Whose  tempests  bowed  to  earth 

Her  foeman's  banner  here. 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS.  43 

The  forest-leaves  lay  scattered  cold  and  dead, 
Upon  the  withered  grass  that  autumn  morn, 

When,  with  as  widowed  hearts 

And  hopes  as  dead  and  cold, 

A  gallant  army  formed  their  last  array 
Upon  that  field,  in  silence  and  deep  gloom, 

And  at  their  conqueror's  feet 

Laid  their  war-weapons  down. 

Sullen  and  stern,  disarmed  but  not  dishonored ; 
Brave  men,  but  brave  in  vain,  they  yielded  there : 

The  soldier's  trial-task 

Is  not  alone  "to  die." 

Honor  to  chivalry  !  the  conqueror's  breath 
Stains  not  the  ermine  of  his  foeman's  fame, 

Nor  mocks  his  captive's  doom — 

The  bitterest  cup  of  war. 

But  be  that  bitterest  cup  the  doom  of  all 
Whose  swords  are  lightning-flashes  in  the  cloud 

Of  the  Invader's  wrath, 

Threatening  a  gallant  land  ! 

His  armies'  trumpet-tones  wake  not  alone 
Her  slumbering  echoes ;  from  a  thousand  hills 

Her  answering  voices  shout, 

And  her  bells  ring  to  arms ! 
3 


44  THE  FIELD  OF  THE   GROUNDED  ARMS 

Then  danger  hovers  o'er  the  Invader's  march, 
On  raven  wings,  hushing  the  song  of  fame, 

And  glory's  hues  of  beauty  . 

Fade  from  the  cheek  of  death. 

A  foe  is  heard  in  every  rustling  leaf, 
A  fortress  seen  in  every  rock  and  tree, 

The  eagle  eye  of  art 

Is  dim  and  powerless  then, 

And  war  becomes  a  people's  joy,  the  drum 
Man's  merriest  music,  and  the  field  of  death 

His  couch  of  happy  dreams, 

After  life's  harvest-home. 

He  battles  heart  and  arm,  his  own  blue  sky 
Above  him,  and  his  own  green  land  around, 

Land  of  his  father's  grave, 

His  blessing  and  his  prayers  : 

Land  where  he  learned  to  lisp  a  mother's  name, 
The  first  beloved  in  life,  the  last  forgot, 

Land  of  his  frolic  youth, 

Land  of  his  bridal  eve — 

Land  of  his  children — vain  your  columned  strength, 
Invaders  !  vain  your  battles'  steel  and 'fire  ! 

Choose  ye  the  morrow's  doom — 

A  prison  or  a  grave. 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS.  45 

And  such  were  Saratoga's  victors — such 

The  Yeomen-Brave,  whose  deeds  and  death  have  given 

A  glory  to  her  skies, 

A  music  to  her  name. 

In  honorable  life  her  fields  they  trod, 
In  honorable  death  they  sleep  below  ; 

Their  sons'  proud  feelings  here 

Their  noblest  monuments. 


RED    JACKET.7 
A  Chief  of  the  Indian  Tribes,  the  Tuscaroras. 

ON    LOOKING    AT    HIS    PORTRAIT    BY    WEIR. 

JOOPER,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven$ 

First  in  her  files,  her  PIONEER  of  mind — 
A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind ; 

And  throned  her  in  the  senate-hall  of  nations, 
Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven- wrought ; 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 
And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought : 

And  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 

As  law  authority,  it  passed  nem.  con. : 
He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 

The  most  enlightened  people  ever  known: 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 

In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugl-  ; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff  or  an  epitaph : 


RED  JACKET  47 

And  furthermore— in  fifty  years,  or  sooner, 

We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine;  • 
And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 

Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to  the  Line. 

If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora ! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now, 
In  all  its  medalled,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 

Its  eye's  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow — 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplomatic, 
Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings ; 

Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Democratic, 
Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  Kings ! 

For  thou  wast  monarch  born.     Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest  tribes. have  bent  for  ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely — if  no  poet's  magic 
Could  make  RED  JACKET  grace  an  English  rhyme, 

Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the  tragic 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime — 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  thine  own  land,  and  on  her  herald-roll ; 

As  bravely  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  Cceur  de  Lion's  of  a  warrior's  soul. 


48  RED  JACKET. 

Thy  garb — though  Austria's  bosom-star  would  frighten 
That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 

And  George  the  Fourth  wore,  at  his  court  at  Brighton 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine  ; 

Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch,  on  field  and  flood, 

As  Rob  Roy's  tartan  for  the  Highland  heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's  Robin  Hood. 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit,  like  a  whaler's  ? 

Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong 
As  earth's  first  kings — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors, 

Heroes  in  history  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  beauty  ? — Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed ; 

But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years, 
And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken-hearted, 

Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles  and  not  for  tears. 

Is  eloquence? — Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport ; 

And  there's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery — they  are  short. 

The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  commanding, 

The  birth-hour  gift,  the  art  Napoleon, 
Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  banding 

The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one: 


RED  JACKET. 

Thou  hast  it.     At  thy  bidding  men  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulchres,  have  shrouded 

With  banner-folds  of  glory  the  dark  pall. 

Who  will  believe  ?     Not  I — for  in  deceiving 
Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream ; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 
That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem ; 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,  soothe  a  dying  hour, 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing, 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit  bower  : 

With  look  like  patient  Job's  eschewing  evil; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air ; 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clinched  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair  1 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the  Upas-tree ; 

And  in  thy  wrath  a  nursing  cat-o'-mountain 
Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared  with  thee  ! 

And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all  save  fear: 


50  RED  JACKET. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water ; 
Pride — in  thy  rifle-trophies  and  thy  scars ; . 

Hope — that  thy  wrongs  may  be,  by  the  Great  Spirit, 
Remembered  and  revenged  when  thou  art  gone ; 

Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 
Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne ! 


LOVE. 


....  The  imperial  votaress  passed  on 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DRKAM. 

Shall  I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  threescore  again  ? 

BENEDICT,  IN  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


|HEN  the  tree  of  Love  is -budding  first, 

Ere  yet  its  leaves  are  green, 
Ere  yet,  by  shower  and  sunbeam  nursed 

Its  infant  life  has  been; 
The  wild  bee's  slightest  touch  might  wring 

The  buds  from  off  the  tree, 
As  the  gentle  dip  of  the  swallow's  wing 
Breaks  the  bubbles  on  the  sea. 

But  when  its  open  leaves  have  found 

A  home  in  the  free  air, 
Pluck  them,  and  there  remains  a  wound 

That  ever  rankles  there. 
The  blight  of  hope  and  happiness 

Is  felt  when  fond  ones  part, 
And  the  bitter  tear  that  follows  is 

The  life-blood  of  the  heart. 


52  LOVE. 

When  the  flame  of  love  is  kindled  first, 

'Tis  the  fire-fly's  light  at  even, 
'Tis  dim  as  the  wandering  stars  that  burst 

In  the  blue  of  the  summer  heaven. 
A  breath  can  bid  it  burn  no  more, 

Or  if,  at  times,  its  beams 
Come  on  the  memory,  they  pass  o'er 

Like  shadows  in  our  dreams. 

But  when  that  flame  has  blazed  into 

A  being  and  a  power, 
And  smiled  in  scorn  upon  the  dew 

That  fell  in  its  first  warm  hour, 
'Tis  the  flame  that  curls  round  the  martyr's  head, 

Whose  task  is  to  destroy ; 
'Tis  the  lamp  on  the  altars  of  the  dead, 

Whose  light  but  darkens  joy. 

Then  crush,  even  in  their  hour  of  birth, 

The  infant  buds  of  Love, 
And  tread  his  glowing  fire  to  earth, 

Ere  'tis  dark  in  clouds  above ; 
Cherish  no  more  a  cypress-tree 

To  shade  thy  future  years, 
Nor  nurse  a  heart-flame  that  may  be 

Quenched  only  with  thy  tears. 


A   SKETCH. 

JER  Leghorn  hat  was  of  the  bright  gold  tint 

The  setting  sunbeams  give  to  autumn  clouds ; 
The  ribbon  that  encircled  it  as  blue 
As  spots  of  sky  upon  a  moonless  night, 
When  stars  are  keeping  revelry  in  heaven ; 
A  single  ringlet  of  her  clustering  hair 
Fell  gracefully  beneath  her  hat,  in  curls 
.As  dark  as  down  upon  the  raven's  wing ; 
The  kerchief,  partly  o'er  her  shoulders  flung, 
And  partly  waving  in  the  wind,  was  woven 
Of  every  color  the  first  rainbow  wore, 
When  it  came  smiling  in  its  hues  of  beauty 
A  promise  from  on  high  to  a  lost  world, 
Her  robe  seemed  of  the  snow  just  fallen  to  earth, 
Pure  from  its  home  in  the  far  winter  clouds, 
As  white,  as  stainless ;  and  around  her  waist 
(You  might  have  spanned  it  with  your  thumb  and  fin- 
ger), 

A  girdle  of  the  hue  of  Indian  pearls 
Was  twined,  resembling  the  faint  line  of  water 
That  follows  the  swift  bark  o'er  quiet  seas. 
Her  face  I  saw  not :  but  her  shape,  her  form, 
Was  one  of  those  with  which  creating  bards 


54  A    SKETCH. 

People  a  world  of  their  own  fashioning, 

Forms  for  the  heart  to  love  and  cherish  ever, 

The  visiting  angels  of  our  twilight  dreams. 

Her  foot  was  loveliest  of  remembered  things, 

Small  as  a  fairy's  on  a  moonlit  leaf 

Listening  the  wind-harp's  song,  and  watching  by 

The  wild-thyme  pillow  of  her  sleeping  queen, 

When  proud  Titania  shuns  her  Oberon. 

But  'twas  that  foot  which  broke  the  spell — alas ! 

Its  stocking  had  a  deep,  deep  tinge  of  blue — 

I  turned  away  in  sadness,  and  passed  on. 


DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS. 


The  only  bliss 

Of  Paradise  that  has  survived  the  fall. 


JESIDE  the  nuptial  curtain  bright," 

The  bard  of  Eden  sings, 
"  Young  Love  his  constant  lamp  will  light, 

And  wave  his  purple  wings." 
But  rain-drops  from  the  clouds  of  care 

May  bid  that  lamp  be  dim, 
And  the  boy  Love  will  pout  and  swear 
'Tis  then  no  place  for  him. 


So  mused  the  lovely  Mrs.  Dash 

('Tis  wrong  to  mention  names) 
When  for  her  surly  husband's  cash 

She  urged  in  vain  her  claims. 
"  I  want  a  little  moneyj  dear, 

For  Vandervoort  and  Flandin, 
Their  bill,  which  now  has  run  a  year, 

To-morrow  mean  to  hand  in." 


56  DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS. 

III. 

"  More  ?  "  cried  the  husband,  half  asleep, 

"  You'll  drive  me  to  despair;  " 
The  lady  was  too  proud  to  weep, 

And  too  polite  to  swear. 
She  bit  her  lip  for  very  spite, 

He  felt  a  storm  was  brewing, 
And  dreamed  of  nothing  else  all  night, 

But  brokers,  banks,  and  ruin. 


IV. 

lie  thought  her  pretty  once,  but  dreams 

Have  sure  a  wondrous  power, 
For  to  his  eye  the  lady  seems 

Quite  altered  since  that  hour ; 
And  Love,  who  on  their  bridal  eve 

Had  promised  long  to  stay, 
Forgot  his  promise,  took  French  leave, 

And  bore  his  lamp  away. 


MAGDALEN.8 


SWORD,  whose  blade  has  ne'er  been  wet 

With  blood,  except  of  freedom's  foes ; 
That  hope  which,  though  its  sun  be  set, 

Still  with  a  starlight  beauty  glows ; 
A  heart  that  worshipped  in  Romance 

The  Spirit  of  the  buried  Time, 
And  dreams  of  knight,  and  steed,  and  lance, 

And  ladye-love,  and  minstrel-rhyme ; 
These  had  been,  and  I  deemed  would  be 
My  joy,  whate'er  my  destiny. 

II. 

Born  in  a  camp,  its  watch-fires  bright 

Alone  illumed  my  cradle-bed ; 
And  I  had  borne  with  wild  delight 

My  banner  where  Bolivar  led, 
Ere  manhood's  hue  was  on  my  cheek, 

Or  manhood's  pride  was  on  my  brow. 
Its  foes'  are  furled — the  war-bird's  beak 

Is  thirsty  on  the  Andes  now; 
I  longed,  like  her,  for  other  skies 
Clouded  by  Glory's  sacrifice. 


58  MAGDALEN. 

III. 

In  Greece,  the  brave  heart's  Holy  Land, 

Its  soldier-song  the  bugle  sings ; 
And  I  have  buckled  on  my  brand, 

And  waited  but  the  sea-wind's  wings, 
To  bear  me  where,  or  lost  or  won 

Her  battle,  in  its  frown  or  smile, 
Men  live  with  those  of  Marathon, 

Or  die  with  those  of  Scio's  isle ; 
And  find  in  Valor's  tent  or  tomb, 
In  life  or  death,  a  glorious  home. 

IV. 

I  could  have  left  but  yesterday 

The  scene  of  my  boy-years  behind, 
And  floated  on  my  "careless  way 

Wherever  willed  the  breathing  wind. 
I  could  have  bade  adieu  to  aught 

I've  sought,  or  met,  or  welcomed  here, 
Without  an  hour  of  shaded  thought, 

A  sigh,  a  murmur,  or  a  tear. 
Such  was  I  yesterday — but  then 
I  had  not  known  thee,  Magdalen. 

v. 
To-day  there  is  a  change  within  me, 

There  is  a  weight  upon  my  brow, 
And  Fame,  whose  whispers  once  could  win  me 

From  all  I  loved,  is  powerless  now. 


MAGDALEN  59 

There  ever  is  a  form,  a  face 

Of  maiden  beauty  in  my  dreams, 
Speeding  before  me,  like  the  race 

To  ocean  of  the  mountain-streams— 
With  dancing  hair,  and  laughing  eyes, 
That  seem  to  mock  me  as  it  flies. 

VI. 
My  sword — it  slumbers  in  its  sheath ; 

My  hopes — their  starry  light  is  gone ; 
My  heart — the  faoled  clock  of  death 

Beats  with  the  same  low,  lingering  tone : 
And  this,  the  land  of  Magdalen, 

Seems  now  the  only  spot  on  earth 
Where  skies  are  blue  and  flowers  are  green ; 

And  here  I  build  my  household  hearth, 
And  breathe  my  song  of  jcy,  and  twine 
A  lovely  being's  name  with  mine. 

VII. 

In  vain !  in  vain  !  the  sail  is  spread ; 

To  sea !  to  sea !  my  task  is  there ; 
But  when  among  the  unmourned  dead 

They  lay  me,  and  the  ocean  air 
Brings  tidings  of  my  day  of  doom, 

Mayst  thou  be  then,  as  now  thou  art, 
The  load-star  of  a  happy  home  ; 

In  smile  and  voice,  in  eye  and  heart 
The  same  as  thou  hast  ever  been, 
The  loved,  the  lovely  Magdalen. 


FROM   THE   ITALIAN. 

I  YES  with  the  same  blue  witchery  as  those 

Of  Psyche,  which  caught  Love  in  his  own  wiles  j 
Lips  of  the  breath  and  hue  of  the  red  rose, 
That  move  but  with  kind  words  and  sweetest  smiles ; 
A  power  of  motion  and  of  look,  whose  art 
Throws,  silently,  around  the  wildest  heart 
The  net  it  would  not  break  ;  a  form  which  vies 
With  that  the  Grecian  imaged  in  his  mind, 
And  gazed  upon  in  dreams,  and  sighed  to  find 
His  breathing  marble  could  not  realize. 
Know  ye  this  picture  ?    There  is  one  alone 
Can  call  its  pencilled  lineaments  her  own. 
She  whom,  at  morning,  when  the  summer  air 
Wanders,  delighted,  o'er  her  face  of  flowers, 
And  lingers  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 
We  deem  the  Hebe  of  Jove's  banquet-hours ; 
She  who,  at  evening,  when  her  fingers  press 
The  harp,  and  wake  its  harmonies  divine, 
Seems  sweetest-voiced  and  loveliest  of  the  Nine, 
The  minstrel  of  the  bowers  of  happiness, 
She  whom  the  Graces  nurtured — at  her  birth, 
The  sea-born  Goddess  and  the  Huntress  maid, 


FROM  THE  ITALIAN. 

Beings  whose  beauty  is  not  of  the  earth, 
Came  from  their  myrtle  home  and  forest  shade, 
Blending  immortal  joy  with  mortaf  mirth 
And  Dian  said,  "  Fair  sister,  be  she  mine 
In  her  heart's  purity,  in  beauty  thine." 
The  smiling  infant  listened  and  obeyed. 


61 


TRANSLATION. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    GOETHE. 

r'AIN  ye  come,  again  ye  throng  around  me, 
Dim,  shadowy  beings  of  my  boyhood's  dream  ! 
Still  shall  I  bless,  as  then,  your  spell  that  bound  me  ? 

Still  bend  to  mists  and  vapors  as  ye  seem  ? 
Nearer  ye  come  :  I  yield  me  as  ye  found  me 

In  youth  your  worshipper ;  and  as  the  stream 
Of  air  that  folds  you  in  its  magic  wreaths, 
Flows  by  my  lips,  youth's  joy  my  bosom  breathes. 

Lost  forms  and  loved  ones  ye  are  with  you  bringing, 

And  dearest  images  of  happier  days, 
First-love  and  friendship  in  your  path  upspringing, 

Like  old  tradition's  half-remembered  lays, 
And  long-slept  sorrows  waked,  whose  dirge-like  singing 

Recalls  my  life's  strange  labyrinthine  maze, 
And  names  the  heart-mourned  many  a  stern  doom,- 
Ere  their  year's  summer,  summoned  to  the  tomb. 

They  hear  not  these  my  last  songs,  they  whose  greet- 
ing 

Gladdened  my  first;   my  spring-time  friends  have 
gone, 


TRANSLA  TION.  63 

And  gone,  fast  journeying  from  that  place  of  meeting, 
The  echoes  of  their  welcome,  one  by  one. 

Though  stranger  crowds,  my  listeners  since,  are  beating 
Time  to  my  music,  their  applauding  tone 

More  grieves  than  glads  me,  while  the  tried  and  true, 

If  yet  on  earth,  are  wandering  far  and  few. 

A  longing  long  unfelt,  a  deep-drawn  sighing 
For  the  far  Spirit- World  o'erpowers  me  now ; 

My  song's  faint  voice  sinks  fainter,  like  the  dying 
Tones  of  the  wind-harp  swinging  from  the  bough, 

And  my  changed  heart  throbs  warm,  no  more  denying 
Tears  to  my  eyes  or  sadness  to  my  brow ; 

The  near  afar  off  seems,  the  distant  nigh, 

The  now  a  dream,  the  past  reality. 


WOMAN. 

WRITTEN    IN    THE    ALBUM    OF    AN    UNKNOWN    LADY. 

|ADY,  although  we  have  not  met, 

And  may  not  meet,  beneath  the  sky  ; 
And  whether  thine  are  eyes  of  jet, 
Gray,  or  dark  blue,  or  violet, 
Or  hazel — Heaven  knows,  not  I ; 

Whether  around  thy  cheek  of  rose 

A  maiden's  glowing  locks  are  curled. 
And  to  some  thousand  kneeling  beaux 
Thy  frown  is  cold  as  winter's  snows, 
Thy  smile  is  worth  a  world  ; 

Or  whether,  past  youth's  joyous  strife, 
The  calm  of  thought  is  on  thy  brow, 

And  thou  art  in  thy  noon  of  life, 

Loving  and  loved,  a  happy  wife, 
And  happier  mother  now — 

1  know  not :  but,  whate'er  thou  art, 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  were  mine  the  spell, 
To  call  Fate's  joys  or  blunt  his  dart, 
There  should  not  be  one  hand  or  heart 
But  served  or  wished  thee  well. 


WOMAN.  65 

For  thou  art  woman — with  that  word 
Life's  dearest  hopes  and  memories  come, 

Truth,  Beauty,  Love — in  her  adored, 

And  earth's  lost  Paradise  restored 
In.  the  green  bower  of  home. 

What  is  man's  love  ?     His  vows  are  broke, 
Even  while  his  parting  kiss  is  warni ; 

But  woman's  love  all  change  will  mock, 

And,  like  the  ivy  round  the  oak, 
Cling  closest  in  the  storm. 

And  well  the  Poet  at  her  shrine 

May  bend,  and  worship  while  he  woos  ; 

To  him  she  is  a  thing  divine, 

The  inspiration  of  his  line, 
His  Sweetheart  and  his  Muse. 

If  to  his  song  the  echo  rings 

Of  Fame — 'tis  woman's  voice  he  hears  ; 
If  ever  from  his  lyre's  proud  strings 
Flow  sounds  like  rush  of  angel-wings, 
'Tis  that  she  listens  while  he  sings, 

With  blended  smiles  and  tears  : 

Smiles — tears — whose  blessed  and  blessing  power, 
Like  sun  and  dew  o'er  summer's  tree, 

Alone  keeps  green  through  Time's  long  hour, 

That  frailer  thing  than  leaf  or  flower, 
A  poet's  immortality. 


A  POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

FOR    THE    ALBUM    OF    MISS  *  '  *,    AT    THE    REQUEST    OF    HER    FATHER, 

LADY  asks  the  Minstrel's  rhyme." 
A  Lady  asks  ?    There  was  a  time 
When  musical  as  play-bell's  chime 

To  wearied  boy, 

That  sound  would  summon  dreams  sublime 
Of  pride  and  joy. 

But  now  the  spell  hath  lost  its  sway, 
Life's  first-born  fancies  first  decay, 
Gone  are  the  plumes  and  pennons  gay 

Of  young  Romance ; 
There  linger  but  her  ruins  gray, 

And  broken  lance. 

'Tis  a  new  world — no  more  to  maid, 
Warrior,  or  bard,  is  homage  paid ; 
The  bay-tree's,  laurel's,  myrtle's  shade, 

Men's  thoughts  resign ; 
Heaven  placed  us  here  to  vote  and  trade, 

Twin  ta"sks  divine ! 


A   POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

"Tis  youth,  'tis  beauty  asks;  the  green 

And  growing  leaves  of  seventeen 

Are  round  her;  and,  half  hid,  half  seen, 

A  violet  flower, 
Nursed  by  the  virtues  she  hath  been 

From  childhood's  hour." 


Blind  passion's  picture — yet  for  this 
We  woo  the  life-long  bridal  kiss, 
And  blend  our  every  hope  of  bliss 

With  hers  we  love ; 
Unmindful  of  the  serpent's  hiss 

In  Eden's  grove. 


Beauty — the  fading  rainbow's  pride, 
Youth — 'twas  the  charm  of  her  who  died 
At  dawn,  and  by  her  coffin's  side 

A  grandsire  stands, 
Age-strengthened,  like  the  oak  storm-tried 

Of  mountain-lands. 


Youth's  coffin — hush  the  tale  it  tells ! 
Be  silent,  memory's  funeral  bells  ! 
Lone  in  one  heart,  her  home,  it  dwells 

Untold  till  death, 
And  where  the  grave-mound  greenly  swells 

O'er  buried  faith. 
4 


58  A   POET'S  DA  UGHTER. 

"But  what  if  hers  are  rank  and  power, 
Armies  her  train,  a  throne  her  bower, 
A  kingdom's  gold  her  marriage-dower, 

Broad  seas  and  lands  ? 
What  if  from  bannered  hall  and  tower 

A  queen  commands  ? " 


A  queen  ?    Earth's  regal  moons  have  set. 

Where  perished  Marie  Antoinette  ? 

Where's  Bordeaux's  mother  ?    Where  the  jet- 
Black  Haytian  dame  ? 

And  Lusitania's  coronet  ? 
And  Angouleme  ? 


Empires  to-day  are  upside  down, 
The  castle  kneels  before  the  town, 
The  monarch  fears  a  printer's  frown 

A  brickbat's  range ; 
Give  me,  in  preference  to  a  crown,' 

Five  shillings  change. 


"  But  she  who  asks,  though  first  among 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 
The  birthright  of  a  spell  more  strong 

Than  these  hath  brought  her ; 
She  is  your  kinswoman  in  song, 

A  Poet's  daughter." 


A   POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  Poet's  daughter?     Could  I  claim 
The  consanguinity  of  fame, 
Veins  of  my  intellectual  frame  ! 

Your  blood  would  glow 
Proudly  to  sing  that  gentlest  name 

Of  aught  below. 

A  Poet's  daughter — dearer  word 

Lip  hath  not  spoken  nor  listener  heard, 

Fit  theme  for  song  of  bee  and  bird 

From  morn  till  even, 
And  wind-harp  by  the  breathing  stirred 

Of  starlit  heaven. 

My  spirit's  wings  are  weak,  the  fire 

Poetic  comes  but  to  expire, 

Her  name  needs  not  my  humble  lyre 

To  bid  it  live ; 
She  hath  already  from  her  sire 

All  bard  can  give. 


CONNECTICUT. 

FROM    AN    UNPUBLISHED    POEM. 

"The  woods  in  which  we  had  dwelt  pleasantly  rustled  their  green 
leaves  in  the  song,  and  our  streams  were  there  with  the  sound  of  all 
their  waters."  MONTROSE. 


[TILL  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 

That  crouches  at  their  feet,  a  conquered  wave ; 
'Tis  a  rough  land  of  earth,  and  stone,  and  tree, 

Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabined  slave ; 
Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands  are  bold  and 

free, 

And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave; 
And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  Heaven  they  pray, 
Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 

n. 

Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "  fierce  democratic,"  where  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — right  or  wrong — 
And  to  their  laws  denominated  blue ; 

(If  red,  they  might  to  Draco's  code  belong;) 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue, 

Nor  promise  win — like  her  own  eagle's  nest, 

Sacred — the  San  Marino  of  the  West. 


CONNECTICUT.  7 1 

III. 

A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  being, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year ; 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear; 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things ;  and  should  Park  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show 

The  Niger's  source,  they'd  meet  him  with — "we  know." 

IV 

They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why ; 

Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne, 
And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty ; 

A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  flattering  none. 
Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die ; 

All — but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 

With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,  pence,  Snd  ped- 
dling; 

v. 

Or  wandering  through  the  Southern  countries  teaching 
The  ABC  from  Webster's  spelling-book ; 

Gallant  and  godly,  making  love  and  preaching, 
And  gaining  by  what  they  call  "  hook  and  crook," 

And  what  the  moralists  call  overreaching, 
A  decent  living.     The  Virginians  look 


72  CONNECTICUT. 

Upon  them  with  as  favorable  eyes 
As  Gabriel  on  the  devil  in  paradise. 

VI. 

But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.     View  them  near 
At  home,  where  all  their  worth  and  pride  is  placed ; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 
And  there  the  lowliest  farmhouse  hearth  is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere, 

Faithful  in  love,  in  honor  stern  and  chaste, 

In  friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger  brave, 

Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 

VII. 

And  minds  have  there  been  nurtured,  whose  control 

Is  felt  even  in  their  nation's  destiny ; 
Men  who  swayed  senates  with  a  statesman's  soul, 

And  looked  on  armies  with  a  leader's  eye  ; 
Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scroll, 

Whose  leaves  contain  their  country's  history, 
And  tales  of  love  and  war — listen  to  one 
Of  the  Green-Mountaineer — the  Stark  of  Bennington. 


When  on  that  field  his  band  the  Hessians  fought, 
Briefly  he  spoke  before  the  fight  began  : 

<(  Soldiers  !  those  German  gentlemen  are  bought 
For  fo.ur  pounds  eight  and  sevenpence  per  man, 


CONNECTICUT.  73 

By  England's  king  ;  a  bargain,  as  is  thought. 

Are  we  worth  more  ?     Let's  prove  it  now  we  can  ; 
For  we  must  beat  them,  boys,  ere  set  of  sun, 
OR  MARY  STARK'S  A  WIDOW."    It  was  done. 

IX. 

Hers  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 
Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathayan  vales," 

The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 
Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's  tales 

Of  Florence  and  the  Arno ;  yet  the  wing 
Of  life's  best  angel,  Health,  is  on  her  gales 

Through  sun  and  snow ;  and  in  the  autumn-time 

Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 

x. 

Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon — the  mist  that  shrouds 
Her  twilight  hills — her  cool  and  starry  eves, 

The  glorious  splendor  of  her  sunset  clouds, 
The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest-leaves, 

Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 
Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves ; 

And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 

The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 

XI. 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love  ; 
Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power ; 


74  CONNECTICUT. 

The  maiden  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove, 
The  mother  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower ; 

Forms,  features,  worshipped  while  we  breathe  or  move, 
Be  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour 

Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 

To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake,  you'll  find  them 
there. 

XII. 

****** 
****** 

XIII. 

They  burnt  their  last  witch  in  CONNECTICUT 

About  a  century  and  a  half  ago  ; 
They  made  a  school-house  of  her  forfeit  hut, 

And  gave  a  pitying  sweet-brier  leave  to  grow 
Above  her  thankless  ashes ;  and  they  put 

A  certified  description  of  the  show 
Between  two  weeping- willows,  craped  with  black, 
On  the  last  page  of  that  year's  almanac. 

XIV. 

Some  warning  and  well-meant  remarks  were  made 
Upon  the  subject  by  the  weekly  printers; 

The  people  murmured  at  the  taxes  laid 

To  pay  for  jurymen  and  pitch-pine  splinters, 

And  the  sad  story  made  the  rose-leaf  fade 

Upon  young  listeners'  cheeks  for  several  winters, 


CONNECTICUT.  ,,* 

When  told  at  fire-side  eves  by  those  who  saw 
Executed — the  lady  and  the  law. 


She  and  the  law  found  rest :  years  rose  and  set ; 

That  generation,  cottagers  and  kings, 
Slept  with  their  fathers,  and  the  violet 

Has  mourned  above  their  graves  a  hundred  springs ; 
Few  persons  keep  a  file  of  the  Gazette, 

And  almanacs  are  sublunary  things, 
So  that  her  fame  is  almost  lost  to  earth, 
As  if  she  ne'er  had  breathed ;  and  of  her  birth, 


XVI. 

% 
And  death,  and  lonely  life's  mysterious  matters, 

And  how  she  played,  in  our  forefathers'  times, 
The  very  devil  with  their  sons  and  daughters ; 

And  how  those  "  delicate  Ariels"  of  her  crimes, 
The  spirits  of  the  rocks,  and  woods,  and  waters, 

Obeyed  her  bidding  when  in  charmed  rhymes, 
She  muttered,  at  deep  midnight,  spells  whose  power 
Woke  from  brief  dream  of  dew  the  sleeping  summer 
flower, 

XVII. 

And  hushed  the  night-bird's  solitary  hymn, 
And  spoke  in  whispers  to  the  forest-tree, 


76  CONNECTICUT. 

Till  his  awed  branches  trembled,  leaf  and  limb, 
And  grouped  her  churchyard  shapes  of  fantasie 

Round  merry  moonlight's  meadow-fountain's  brim, 
And  mocking  for  a  space  the  dread  decree, 

Brought  back  to  dead,  cold  lips  the  parted  breath, 

And  changed  to  banquet-board  the  bier  of  death, 

XVIII. 

None  knew — except  a  patient,  precious  few, 
Who've  read  the  folios  of  one  COTTON  MATHER, 

A  chronicler  of  tales  more  strange  than  true, 
New-England's  chaplain,  and  her  history's  father ; 

A  second  Monmouth's  GEOFFREY,  a  new 
H ERODOTUS,  their  laurelled  victor  rather, 

For  in  one  art  he  soars  above  them  high : 

The  Greek  or  Welshman  does  not  always  lie. 


XIX. 

Know  ye  the  venerable  COTTON  ?    He 
Was  the  first  publisher's  tourist  on  this  station  ; 

The  first  who  made,  by  labelling  earth  and  sea, 
A  huge  book,  and  a  handsome  speculation : 

And  burs  was  then  a  land  of  mystery, 
Fit  theme  for  poetry's  exaggeration, 

The  wildest  wonder  of  the  month ;  and  there 

He  wandered  freely,  like  a  bird  or  bear, 


CONNECTICUT.  77 

XX. 

And  wove  his  forest  dreams  into  quaint  prose, 
Our  sires  his  heroes,  where,  in  holy  strife, 

They  treacherously  war  with  friends  and  foes ; 
Where  meek  religion  wears  the  assassin's  knife, 

And  "bids  the  desert  blossom  like  the  rose," 
By  sprinkling  earth  with  blood  of  Indian  life, 

And  rears  her  altars  o'er  the  indignant  bones 

Of  murdered  maidens,  wives,  and  little  ones. 

XXI. 

HEROD  of  Galilee's  babe-butchering  deed 
*  Lives  not  on  history's  blushing  page  alone  ; 
Our  skies,  it  seems,  have  seen  like  victims  bleed, 
And  our  own  Ramahs  echoed  groan  for  groan : 
The  fiends  of  France,  whose  cruelties  decreed 

Those  dextrous  drownings  in  the  Loire  and  Rhone, 
Were  at  their  worst,  but  copyists  second-hand 
Of  our  shrined,  sainted  sires,  the  Plymouth  pilgrim- 
band, 

XXII. 

Or  else  fibs  MATHER.     Kindred  wolves  have  bayed 
Truth's  moon  in  chorus,  but  believe  them  not ! 

Beneath  the  dark  trees  that  the  Lethe  shade, 
Be  he,  his  folios,  followers,  facts,  forgot ; 

And  let  his  perishing  monument-be  made 
Of  his  own  unsold  volumes :  'tis  the  lot 


78  CONNECTICUT. 

Of  many,  may  be  mine  ;  and  be  it  MATHER'S, 
That  slanderer  of  the  memory  of  our  fathers. 


XXIII. 

And  who  were  they,  our  fathers  ?     In  their  veins 
Ran  the  best  blood  of  England's  gentlemen  ; 

Her  bravest  in  the  strife  on  battle-plains, 
Her  wisest  in  the  strife  of  voice  and  pen  ; 

Her  holiest,  teaching,  in  her  holiest  fanes, 
The  lore  that  led  to  martyrdom ;  and  when 

On  this  side  ocean  slept  their  wearied  sails, 

And  their  toil-bells  woke  up  our  thousand  hills  and 
dales, 

XXIV. 

Shamed  they  their  fathers  ?     Ask  the  village-spires 
Above  their  Sabbath-homes  of  praise  and  prayer  ; 

Ask  of  their  children's  happy  household-fires, 
And  happier  harvest  noons  ;  ask  summer's  air, 

Made  merry  by  young  voices,  when  the  wires 
Of  their  school-cages  are  unloosed,  and  dare 

Their  slanderers'  breath  to  blight  the  memory 

That  o'er  their  graves  is  "  growing  green  to  see  !  " 

xxv. 

If  he  has  "  writ  their  annals  true ;  "  if  they, 
The  Christian-sponsored  and  the  Christian-nursed, 


CONNECTICUT.  JQ 

Clouded  with  crime  the  sunset  of  their  day 
And  warmed  their  winter's  hearths  with  fires  accursed ; 

And  if  the  stain  that  time  wears  not  away 
Of  guilt  was  on  the  pilgrim  axe  that  first 

Our  wood-paths'  roses  blest  with  smiles  from  heaven, 

In  charity  forget,  and  hope  to  be  forgiven. 


XXVI. 

Forget  their  story's  cruelty  and  wrong ; 

Forget  their  story-teller ;  or  but  deem 
His  facts  the  fictions  of  a  minstrel's  song, 

The  myths  and  marvels  of  a  poet's  dream. 
And  are  they  not  such  ?     Suddenly  among 

My  mind's  dark  thoughts  its  boyhood's  sunrise  beam 
Breathes  in  spring  balm  and  beauty  o'er  my  page — 
Joy  !  joy  !  my  patriot  wrath  hath  wronged  the  reverend 
sage. 

XXVII. 

Welcome  !  young  boyhood,  welcome  !     Of  thy  lore, 
Thy  morning-gathered  wealth  of  prose  and  rhyme, 

Of  fruit  the  flower,  of  gold  the  infant  ore, 

The  roughest  shuns  not  manhood's  stormy  clime, 

But  loves  wild  ocean's  winds  and  breakers'  roar ; 
While,  of  the  blossoms  of  the  sweet  spring-time, 

The  bonniest,  and  most  bountiful  of  joy, 

Shrink  from  the  man,  and  cling  around  the  boy. 


go  CONNECTICUT. 

XXVIII. 

But  now,  like  doves  "  with  healing  on  their  wings," 
Blossom  and  fruit  with  gladdening  kindness  come, 

Charming  to  sleep  my  murmuring  song,  that  sings 
Unworthy  dirges  over  MATHER'S  tomb  : 

Welcome  the  olive-branch  their  message  brings  ! 
It  bids  me  wish  him  not  the  mouldering  doom 

Of  nameless  scribes  of  "  memoires pour  servir" 

Dishonest  "  chroniclers  of  time's  small-beer." 

XXIX. 

No  :  a  born  Poet,  at  his  cradle-fire 
The  muses  nursed  him  as  their  bud  unblown, 

And  gave  him  as  his  mind  grew  high  and  higher, 
Their  ducal  strawberry-leafs  enwreathed  renown. 

Alas  !  that  mightiest  masters  of  the  lyre, 
Whose  pens  above  an  eagle's  heart  have  grown, 

In  all  the  proud  nobility  of  wing, 

Should  stoop  to  dip  their  points  in  passion's  poison- 
spring  ! 

XXX. 

Yet  MlLTON,  weary  of  his  youth's  young  wife, 
To  her,  to  king,  to  church,  to  law  untrue, 

Warred  for  divorce  and  discord  to  the  knife, 
And  proudest  wore  his  plume  of  darkest  hue  : 

And  DANTE,  when  his  FLORENCE,  in  her  strife, 
Robbed  him  of  office  and  his  temper,  threw 


CONNECTICUT.  gj 

'Mongst  friends  and  foes  a  bomb-shell  of  fierce  rhymes, 
Shivering  their  names  and  fames   to  all  succeeding 
times. 

XXXI. 

And  our  own  MATHER'S  fire-and-fagot  tale 
Of  Conquest,  with  her  "  garments  rolled  in  blood," 

And  banners  blackening,  like  a  pirate's  sail, 
The  Mayflower's  memories  of  the  brave  and  good, 

Though  but  a  brain-born  dream  of  rain  land  hail, 
And  in  his  epic  but  an  episode, 

Proves  mournfully  the  strange  and  sad  admission 

Of  much  sour  grape-juice  in  his  disposition. 

XXXII. 

O  Genius  !  powerful  with  thy  praise  or  blame, 
When  art  thou  feigning  ?  when  art  thou  sincere  ? 

MATHER,  who  banned  his  living  friends  with  shame, 
In  funeral-sermons  blessed  them  on  their  bier, 

And  made  their  death-beds  beautiful  with  fame — 
Fame  true  and  gracious  as  a  widow's  tear 

To  her  departed  darling  husband  given  ; 

Him  whom  she  scolded  up  from  earth  to  heaven. 

XXXIII. 

Thanks  for  his  funeral-sermons  ;  they  recall 
The  sunshine  smiling  through  his  folio's  leaves, 

That  makes  his  readers'  hours  in  bower  or  hall 
Joyous  as  plighted  hearts  on  bridal  eves ; 


82  CONNECTICUT. 

Chasing,  like  music  from  the  soul  of  Saul, 

The  doubt  that  darkens,  ajid  the  ill  that  grieves  ; 
And  honoring  the  author's  heart  and  mind, 
,  That  beats  to  bless,  and  toils  to  ennoble  human  kind, 

XXXIV. 

His  chaplain-mantle  worthily  to  wear, 
He  fringed  its  sober  gray  with  poet-bays, 

And  versed  the  Psalms  of  David  to  the  air 
Of  YANKEE-DOODLE,  for  Thanksgiving-days ; 

Thus  hallowing  with  the  earnestness  of  prayer, 
And  patriotic  purity  of  praise, 

Unconscious  of  irreverence  or  wrong, 

Our  manliest  battle-tune  and  merriest  bridal  song. 

xxxv. 

The  good  the  Rhine-song  does  to  German  hearts, 
Or  thine,  Marseilles  1  to  France's  fiery  blood ; 

The  good  thy  anthemed  harmony  imparts, 

"  GOD  save  the  Queen  !  "  to  England's  field  and  floo  J 

A  home-born  blessing,  Nature's  boon,  not  Art's ; 
The  same  heart-cheering,  spirit-warming  good, 

To  us  and  ours,  where'er  we  war  or  woo, 

Thy  words  and  music,  YANKEE-DOODLE  !— do. 

xxxvi. 

Beneath  thy  Star,  as  one  of  the  THIRTEEN, 

Land  of  my  lay  !  through  many  a  battle's  night 


CONNECTICUT.  83 

Thy  gallant  men  stepped  steady  and  serene, 
To  that  war-music's  stern  and  strong  delight. 

Where  bayonets  clinched  above  the  trampled  green, 
Where  sabres  grappled  in  the  ocean-fight ; 

In  siege,  in  storm,  on  deck  or  rampart,  there 

They  hunted  the  wolf  Danger  to  his  lair, 

And  sought  and  won  sweet  Peace,  and  wreaths  for 
Honor's  hair  ! 

XXXVII. 

And  with  thy  smiles,  sweet  Peace,   came  woman's, 
bringing 

The  Eden-sunshine  of  her  welcome  kiss, 
And  lovers'  flutes,  and  children's  voices  singing 

The  maiden's  promised,  matron's  perfect  bliss, 
And  heart  and  home-bells  blending  with  their  ringing 

Thank-offerings  borne  to  holier  worlds  than  this, 
And  the  proud  green  of  Glory's  laurel-leaves, 
And  gold,  the  gift  to  Peace,  of  Plenty's  summer  sheaves. 


MUSIC. 


TO  A  BOY  OF  FOUR  YEARS  OLD,  ON  HEARING  HIM  PLAY 
ON  THE  HARP. 


|WEET  boy  !  before  thy  lips  can  learn 

In  speech  thy  wishes  to  make  known, 
Are  "  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn," 
Heard  in  thy  music's  tone. 

Were  Genius  tasked  to  prove  the  might, 

The  magic  of  her  hidden  spell, 
She  well  might  name  thee  with  delight 

As  her  own  miracle. 

Who  that  hath  heard,  from  summer  trees, 
The  sweet  wild  song  of  summer  birds, 

When  morning  to  the  far-off  breeze 
Whispers  her  bidding  words ; 

Or  listened  to  the  bird  of  night, 

The  minstrel  of  th*  starlight  hours, 
Companion  of  the  firefly's  flight, 

Cool  dews,  and  closed  flowers  ; 


MUSIC.  85 

But  deemed  that  spirits  of  the  air 
Had  left  their  native  homes  in  heaven, 

And  that  the  music  warbled  there 
To  earth  a  while  was  given  ? 

For  with  that  music  came  the  thought 

That  life's  young  purity  was  theirs, 
And  love,  all  artless  and  untaught, 

Breathed  in  their  woodland  airs. 

And  when,  sweet  boy !  thy  baby  fingers 
Wake  sounds  of  heaven's  own  harmony, 

How  welcome  is  the  thought  that  lingers 
Upon  thy  lyre  and  thee  ! 

It  calls  up  visions  of  past  days, 

When  life  was  infancy  and  song 
To  us  ;  and  old  remembered  lays, 

Unheard,  unheeded  long, 

Revive  in  joy  or  grief  within  us, 

Like  lost  friends  wakened  from  their  sleep, 
With  all  their  early  power  to  win  us 

Alike  to  smile  or  weep. 

And  when  we  gaze  upon  that  face, 

Blooming  in  innocence  and  truth, 
And  mark  its  dimpled  artlessness, 

Its  beauty  and  its  youth ; 


86 


MUSIC. 


We  think  of  better  worlds  than  this, 
Of  other  beings  pure  as  thou, 

Who  breathe,  on  winds  of  Paradise, 
Music  as  thine  is  now. 


And  know  the  only  emblem  meet 
Of  that  pure  Faith  the  heart  adores, 

To  be  a  child  like  thee,  whose  feet 
Are  strangers  on  Life's  shores. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 

LIEUT.   WILLIAM   HOWARD   ALLEN, 

OF      THE      AMERICAN      NAVY. 

IE  hath  been  mourned  as  brave  men  mourn  the 

brave, 

And  wept  as  nations  weep  their  cherished  dead, 
With  bitter,  but  proud  tears,  and  o'er  his  head 
The  eternal  flowers  whose  root  is  in  the  grave, 
The  flowers  of  Fame,  are  beautiful  and  green ; 
And  by  his  grave's  side  pilgrim  feet  have  been, 
And  blessings,  pure  as  men  to  martyrs  give, 
Have  there  been  breathed  by  those  he  died  to  save. 
— Pride  of  his  country's  banded  chivalry, 
His  fame  their  hope,  his  name  their  battle-cry; 
He  lived  as  mothers  wish  their  sons  to  live, 
He  died  as  fathers  wish  their  sons  to  die. 

If  on  the  grief-worn  cheek  the  hues  of  bliss, 
Which  fade  when  all  we  love  is  in  the  tomb, 
Could  ever  know  on  earth  a  second  bloom, 
The  memory  of  a  gallant  death  like  his 
Would  call  them  into  being ;  but  the  few, 
Who  as  their  friend,  their  brother,  or  their  son, 
His  kind  warm  heart  and  gentle  spirit  knew, 


88          ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LIEUTENANT  ALLEN. 

Had  long  lived,  hoped,  and  feared  for  him  alone ; 
His  voice  their  morning  music,  and  his  eye 
The  only  starlight  of  their  evening  sky, 
Till  even  the  sun  of  happiness  seemed  dim, 
And  life's  best  joys  were  sorrows  but  with  him ; 
And  when,  the  burning  bullet  in  his  breast, 
He  dropped,  like  summer  fruit  from  off  the  bough, 
There  was  one  heart  that  knew  and  loved  him  best- 
It  was  a  mother's — and  is  broken  now. 


TO   WALTER  BOWNE,  ESQ., 10 

MEMBER    OF    THE    COUNCIL    OF    APPOINTMENT    OF    THE    STATE    OF 
NEW   YORK,  AT   ALBANY,    1 82 1. 

"  Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going, 
But  go  at  once." 

"  I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  precious  to  me." 

MACBETH. 

|E  do  not  blame  you,  Walter  Bowne, 

For  a  variety  of  reasons ; 
You're  now  the  talk  of  half  the  town, 
A  man  of  talent  and  renown, 

And  will  be  for  perhaps  two  seasons. 
That  face  of  yours  has  magic  in  it ; 
Its  smile  transports  us  in  a  minute 

To  wealth  and  pleasure's  sunny  bowers  ; 
And  there  is  terror  in  its  frown, 
Which,  like  a  mower's  scythe,  cuts  down 

Our  city's  loveliest  flowers. 

We  therefore  do  not  blame  you,  sir, 
Whate'er  our  cause  of  grief  may  be  ; 

And  cause  enough  we  have  to  "  stir 
The  very  stones  to  mutiny." 


TO   WALTER  BOWNE,  ESQ. 

You've  driven  from  the  cash  and  cares 
Of  office,  heedless  of  our  prayers, 
Men  who  have  been  for  many  a  year 
To  us  and  to  our  purses  dear, 

And  will  be  to  our  heirs  forever. 
Our  tears,  thanks  to  the  snow  and  rain, 
Have  swelled  the  brook  in  Maiden  Lane 

Into  a  mountain  river ; 
And  when  you  visit  us  again, 
Leaning  at  Tammany  on  your  cane, 
Like  warrior  on  his  battle-blade, 
You'll  mourn  the  havoc  you  have  made. 

There  is  a  silence  and  a  sadness 

Within  the  marble  mansion  now ; 
Some  have  wild  eyes  that  threaten  madness, 

Some  think  of  "  kicking  up  a  row." 
Judge  Miller  will  not  yet  believe 
That  you  have  ventured  to  bereave 

The  city  and  its  hall  of  him  : 
He  has  in  his  own  fine  way  stated, 

"  The  fact  must  be  substantiated," 

Before  he'll  move  a  single  limb. 
He  deems  it  cursed  hard  to  yield 
The  laurel  won  in  every  field 

Through  sixteen  years  of  party  war. 
And  to  be  seen  at  noon  no  more, 
Enjoying  at  his  office  door 

The  luxury  of  a  tenth  segar. 


TO   WALTER  BOWNE,  ESQ. 

Judge  Warner  says  that,  when  he's  gone, 

You'll  miss  the  true  Dogberry  breed ; 
And  Christian  swears  that  you  have  done 

A  most  UN-Christian  deed. 

£| 

How  could  you  have  the  heart  to  strike 
From  place  the  peerless  Pierre  Van  Wyck  ? 
And  the  twin  colonels,  Haines  and  Pell, 
Squire  Fessenden,  and  Sheriff  Bell ; 
Morrell,  a  justice  and  a  wise  one, 
And  Ned  McLaughlin  the  exciseman  ; 
The  two  health-officers,  believers 
In  Clinton  and  contagious  fevers ; 
The  keeper  of  the  city's  treasures, 
The  sealer  of  her  weights  and  measures, 
The  harbor-master,  her  best  bower 
Cable  in  party's  stormy  hour ; 
Ten  auctioneers,  three  bank  directors, 
And  Mott  and  Duffy,  the  inspectors 
Of  whiskey  and  of  flour  ! 

It  was  but  yesterday  they  stood 
All  (ex-officio)  great  and  good. 
But  by  the  tomahawk  struck  down 
Of  party  and  of  Walter  Bowne, 
Where  are  they  now  ?     With  shapes  of  air, 
The  caravan  of  things  that  were, 
Journeying  to  their  nameless  home, 
Like  Mecca's  pilgrims  from  her  tomb  ; 
5 


TO   WALTER  BOWNE,  ESQ. 

With  the  lost  Pleiad  ;  with  the  wars 

Of  Agamemnon's  ancestors ; 

With  their  own  years  of  joy  and  grief, 

Spring's  bud,  and  autumn's  faded  leaf; 

With  birds  that  rourM  their  cradles  flew  ; 

With  winds  that  in  their  boyhood  blew ; 

With  last  night's  dream  and  last  night's  dew. 

Yes,  they  are  gone  ;  alas  !  each  one  of  them  ; 

Departed— every  mother's  son  of  them. 

Yet  often,  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  thoughts  are  winged  and  wandering,  they 

Come  with  the  memory  of  the  past, 

Like  sunset  clouds  along  the  mind, 
Reflecting,  as  they're  flitting  fast 
In  their  wild  hues  of  shade  and  light, 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  bright 

In  golden  moments  left  behind. 


THE   IRON   GRAYS.11 

RE  twine  the  wreath  of  honor 
Around  the  warrior's  brow, 
Who,  at  his  country's  altar,  breathes 

The  life-devoting  vow, 
And  shall  we  to  the  Iron  Grays 

The  meed  of  praise  deny, 
Who  freely  swore,  in  danger's  days, 
For  their  native  land  to  die? 

For  o'er  our  bleeding  country 

Ne'er  lowered  a  darker  storm, 
Than  bade  them  round  their  gallant  chief 

The  iron  phalanx  form. 
When  first  their  banner  waved  in  air, 

Invasion's  bands  were  nigh, 
And  the  battle-drum  beat  long  and  loud, 

And  the  torch  of  war  blazed  high  ! 

Though  still  bright  gleam  their  bayonets, 

Unstained  with  hostile  gore, 
Far  distant  yet  is  England's  host, 

Unheard  her  cannon's  roar. 
Yet  not  in  vain  they  flew  to  arms  ; 

It  made  the  foeman  know 


94  THE  IRON  GRAYS. 

That  many  a  gallant  heart  must -bleed 
Ere  freedom's  star  be  low. 

Guards  of  a  nation's  destiny  ! 

High  is  that  nation's  claim, 
For  not  unknown  your  spirit  proud, 

Nor  your  daring  chieftain's  name. 
'Tis  yours  to  shield  the  dearest  ties 

That  bind  to  life  the  heart, 
That  mingle  with  the  earliest  breath, 

And  with  our  last  depart. 

The  angel-smile  of  beauty 

What  heart  but  bounds  to  feel  ? 
Her  fingers  buckled  on  the  belt, 

That  sheathes  your  gleaming  steel 
And  if  the  soldier's  honored  death 

In  battle  be  your  doom, 
Her  tears  shall  bid  the  flowers  be  green 

That  blossom  round  your  tomb. 

Tread  on  the  path  of  duty, 

Band  of  the  patriot  brave, 
Prepared  to  rush,  at  honor's  call, 

"  To  glory  or  the  grave." 
Nor  bid  your  flag  again  be  furled 

Till  proud  its  eagles  soar, 
Till  the  battle-drum  has  ceased  to  beat, 

And  the  war-torch  burns  no  more. 


AN   BPISTLE  TO   *  *  *  *. 

|  EAR  ****,!  am  writing  not  to  you,  but  at  you, 
For  the  feet  of  you  tourists  have  no  resting- 
place  ; 

But  wherever  with  this  the  mail-pigeon  may  catch  you, 
May  she  find  you  with  gayety's  smile  on  your  face ; 
Whether  chasing  a  snipe  at  the  Falls  of  Cohoes, 
Or  chased  by  the  snakes  upon  Anthony's  Nose ; 
Whether  wandering,  at  Catskill,  from  Hotel  to  Clove, 
Making  sketches,  or  speeches,  puns,  poems,  or  love 
Or  in  old  Saratoga's  unknown  fountain-land, 
Threading  groves  of  enchantment,  half  bushes,  half 

sand ; 
Whether  dancing  on  Sundays  at  Lebanon  Springs, 

With  those  Madame  Hutins  of  Religion,  the  Shakers ; 
Or,  on  Tuesdays,  with  maidens  who  seek  wedding-rings 
At  Ballston,    as  taught    by   mammas  and  match- 
makers ; 

Whether  sailing  St.  Lawrence,  with  unbroken  neck, 
From  her  thousand  green  isles  to  her  castled  Quebec ; 
Or  sketching  Niagara,  pencil  on  knee 

(The  giant  of  waters,  our  country's  pet  lion), 
Or  dipped  at  Long  Branch,  in  the  real  salt  sea, 


^6  AN  EPISTLE  TO  *  *  *  *  . 

With  a  cork  for  a  dolphin,  a  Cockney  Arion; 
Whether  roaming  earth,  ocean,  or  even  the  air, 
Like  Dan  O'Rourke's  eagle — good  luck  to  you  there. 

For  myself,  as  you'll  see  by  the  date  of  my  letter, 
I'm  in  town,  but  of  that  fact  the  least  said  the  better  ; 
For  'tis  vain  to  deny  (though  the  city  o'erflows 
With  well-dressed  men   and  women,   whom   nobody 

knows) 

That  one  rarely  sees  persons  whose  nod  is  an  honor, 
A  lady  with  fashion's  own  impress  upon  her ; 

• 

Or  a  gentleman  blessed  with  the  courage  to  say, 
Like  Morris  (the  Prince  Regent's  friend,  in  his  day), 
"  Let  others  in  sweet  shady  solitudes  dwell, 
Oh !  give  me  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall." 

Apropos — our  friend  A.  chanced  this  morning  to  meet 
The  accomplished  Miss  B.  as  he  passed  Contoit's 

Garden,13 
Both  in  town  in  July ! — he  crossed  over  the  street, 

And  she  entered  the  rouge-shop  of  Mrs.  St.  Martin.13 
Resolved  not  to  look  at  another  known  face, 
Through  Leonard  and  Church  Streets  she  walked  to 

Park  Place, 
And  he  turned  from  Broadway  into  Catharine  Lane, 

And  coursed,  to  avoid  her,  through  alley  and  by-street, 
Till  they  met,  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  again, 
Face  to  face,  near  the  pump  at  the  corner  of  Dey 
Street. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  '  •  •  •  .  97 

Yet,  as  most  of  "  The  Fashion"  are  journeying  now, 
With  the  brown  hues  of  summer  on  cheek  and  on  brow, 
The  few  "gens  comme  ilfaut"  who  are  lingering  here, 
Are,  like  fruits  out  of  season,  more  welcome  and  dear, 
Like  "the  last  rose  of  summer,  left  blooming  alone," 
Or'the  last  snows  of  winter,  pure  ice  of  haut  ton, 
Unmelted,  undimmed  by  the  sun's  brightest  ray, 
And,  like  diamonds,  making  night's  darkness  seem  day. 
One  meets  them  in  groups,  that  Canova  might  fancy, 
At  our  new  lounge  at  evening,  the  Opera  Frangais^* 
In  nines  like  the  Muses,  in  threes  like  the  Graces, 
Green  spots  in  a  desert  of  commonplace  faces. 
The  Queen,  Mrs.  Adams,  goes  there  sweetly  dressed 

In  a  beautiful  bonnet,  all  golden  and  flowery ; 
While  the  King,  Mr.  Bonaparte,  smiles  on  Celeste, 

Heloise,  and  Hutin,  from  his  box  at  the  Bowery. 

For  news,  Parry  still  the  North  Sea  is  exploring, 

And  the  Grand  Turk  has  taken,  they  say,  the  Acrop- 
olis, 
And  we,  in  Swamp  Place,15  have  discovered,  in  boring. 

A  mineral  spring  to  refine  the  metropolis. 
The  day  we  discovered  it  was,  by-the-way, 
In  the  life  of  the  Cockneys,  a  glorious  day. 
For  we  all  had  been  taught,  by  tradition  and  reading, 

That  to  gain  what  admits  us  to  levees  of  kings, 
The  gentleness,  courtesy,  grace  of  high  breeding, 

The  only  sure  way  was  to  "visit  the  Springs." 
So  the  whole  citv  visited  Swamp  Spring  en  masse, 


98  AN  EPISTLE   TO  *  *   *  * 

From  attorney  to  sweep,  from  physician  to  pavior, 
To  drink  of  cold  water  at  sixpence  a  glass, 

And  learn  true  politeness  and  genteel  behavior. 
Though  the  crowd  was  immense  till  the  hour  of  de- 
parture, 

No  gentleman's  feelings  were  hurt  in  the  rush, 
Save  a  grocer's,  who  lost  his  proof-glass  and  bung-starter, 

And  a  chimney-sweep's,  robbed  of  his  scraper  and 

brush. 
They  lingered  till  sunset  and  twilight  had  come, 

When,  wearied  in  limb,  but  much  polished  in  man- 
ners, 
The  sovereign  people  moved  gracefully  home, 

In  the  beauty  and  pride  of  "an  army  with  banners." 
As  to  politics — Adams 16  and  Clinton  yet  live, 

And  reign,  we  presume,  as  we  never  have  missed  'em, 
And  woollens  and  Webster  continue  to  thrive 

Under  something  they  call  the  American  System, 
If  you're  anxious  to  know  what  the  country  is  doing, 
Whether  ruined  already  or  going  to  ruin, 

And  who  her  next  President  will  be,  please  Heaven, 
Read  the  letters  of  Jackson,  the  speeches  of  Clay, 
All  the  party  newspapers,  three  columns  a  day, 

And  Blunt's  Annual  Register,17  year  'twenty-seven. 


FANNT. 

"A  fairy  vision 

Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  in  the  plighted  clouds." 

UrtTOH. 


FANNY, 


[ANNY  was  younger  once  than  she  is  now, 

And  prettier  of  course  ;  I  do  not  mean 
To  say  that  there  are  wrinkles  on  her  brow  ; 

Yet,  to  be  candid,  she  is  past  eighteen — 
Perhaps  past  twenty— but  the  girl  is  shy 
About  her  age,  and  Heaven  forbid  that  I 


ii. 

Should  get  myself  in  trouble  by  revealing 
A  secret  of  this  sort ;  I  have  too  long 

Loved  pretty  women  with  a  poet's  feeling, 
And  when  a  boy,  in  day-dream  and  in  song, 

Have  knelt  me  down  and  worshipped  them  :  alas  ! 

They  never  thanked  me  for't — but  let  that  pass. 


102  FANNY. 

III. 

I've  felt  full  many  a  heartache  in  my  day, 
At  the  mere  rustling  of  a  muslin  gown, 

And  caught  some  dreadful  colds,  I  blush  to  say, 
While  shivering  in  the  shade  of  beauty's  frown. 

They  say  her  smiles  ar.e  sunbeams — it  may  be — 

But  never  a  sunbeam*  would  she  throw  on  me. 

IV. 

But  Fanny's  is  an  eye  that  you  may  gaze  on 
For  half  an  hour,  without  the  Slightest  harm  ; 

E'en  when  she  wore  her  smiling  summer  face  on 
There  was  but  little  danger,  and  the  charm 

That  youth  and  wealth  once  gave,  has  bade  farewell 

Hers  is  a  sad,  sad  tale — 'tis  mine  its  woes  to  tell. 

v. 

Her  father  kept,  some  fifteen  years  ago, 
A  retail  dry-goods  shop  in  Chatham  Street, 

And  nursed  his  little  earnings,  sure  though  slow> 
Till,  having  mustered  wherewithal  to  meet 

The  gaze  of  the  great  world,  he  breathed  the  air 

Of  Pearl  Street — and  "  set  up"  in  Hanover  Square. 


Money  is  power,  'tis  said— I  never  tried  ; 
I'm  but  a  poet — and  bank-notes  to  me 


FANNY.  I03 

Are  curiosities,  as  closely  eyed, 

Whene'er  I  get  them,  as  a  stone  would  be, 
Tossed  from  the  moon  on  Doctor  MitchuTs  table, 
Or  classic  brickbat  from  the  tower  of  Babel. 

VII. 

But  he  I  sing  of  well  has  known  and  felt 
That  money  hath  a  power  and  a  dominion ; 

For  when  in  Chatham  Street  the  good  man  dwelt, 
No  one  would  give  a  sous  for  his  opinion. 

And  though  his  neighbors  were  extremely  civil, 

Yet,  on  the  whole,  they  thought  him — a  poor  devil. 

VIII. 

A  decent  kind  of  person ;  one  whose  head 

Was  not  of  brains  particularly  full ; 
It  was  not  known  that  he  had  ever  said 

Any  thing  worth  repeating — 'twas  a  dull, 
Good,  honest  man — what  Paulding's  muse  would  call 
A  "  cabbage-head" — but  he  excelled  them  all 

IX. 

In  that  most  noble  of  the  sciences, 

The  art  of  making  money  ;  and  he  found 
The  zeal  for  quizzing  him  grew  less  and  less, 
•  As  he  grew  richer ;  till  upon  the  ground 
Of  Pearl  Street,  treading  proudly  in  the  might 
And  majesty  of  wealth,  a  sudden  light 


104  FANNY. 

X. 

Flashed  like  the  midnight  lightning  on  the  eyes 
Of  all  who  knew  him  :  brilliant  traits  of  mind, 

And  genius,  clear,  and  countless  as  the  dyes 
Upon  the  peacock's  plumage  ;  taste  refined, 

Wisdom  and  wit,  were  his — perhaps  much  more — 

'Twas  strange  they  had  not  found  it  out  before. 

XI. 

In  this  quick  transformation,  it  is  true 

That  cash  had  no  small  share  ;  but  there  were  still 
Some  other  causes,  which  then  gave  a  new 

Impulse  to  head  and  heart,  and  joined  to  fill 
His  brain  with  knowledge  ;  for  there  first  he  met 
The  editor  of  the  New  York  Gazette — 

XII. 

The  sapient  Mr.  LANG.     The  world  of  him 
Knows  much,  yet  not  one-half  so  much  as  he 

Knows  of  the  world.     Up  to  its  very  brim 
The  goblet  of  his  mind  is  sparkling  free 

With  lore  and  learning.     Had  proud  Sheba's  queen, 

In  all  her  bloom  and  beauty,  but  have  seen 

XIII. 

This  modern  Solomon,  the  Israelite, 

Earth's  monarch  as  he  was,  had  never  won  her. 


FANNY.  I05 

He  would  have  hanged  himself  for  very  spite, 

And  she,  blessed  woman,  might  have  had  the  honor 
Of  some  neat  "  paragraphs  " — worth  all  the  lays 
That  Judah's  minstrel  warbled  in  her  praise. 

XIV. 

Her  star  arose  too  soon  ;  but  that  which  swayed 
Th'  ascendant  at  our  merchant's  natal  hour 

Was  bright  with  better  destiny— its  aid 
Led  him  to  pluck  within  the  classic  bower 

Of  bulletins,  the  blossoms  of  true  knowledge, 

And  LANG  supplied  the  loss  of  school  and  college. 

xv. 

For  there  he  learned  the  news  some  minutes  sooner 
Than  others  could ;  and  to  distinguish  well 

The  different  signals,  whether  ship  or  schooner, 
Hoisted  at  Staten  Island ;  and  to  tell 

The  change  of  wind,  and  of  his  neighbor's  fortunes, 

And,  best  of  all — he  there  learned  self-importance. 

XVI. 

Nor  were  these  all  the  advantages  derived 
From  change  of  scene ;  for  near  his  domicil 

HE  of  the  pair  of  polished  lamps  then  lived, 
And  in  my  hero's  promenades,  at  will, 

Could  he  behold  them  burning — and  their  flame 

Kindled  within  his  breast  the  love  of  fame — 


106  FANNY. 

XVII. 

And  politics,  Shd  country ;  the  pure  glow 
Of  patriot  ardor,  and  the  consciousness 

That  talents  such  as  his  might  well  bestow 
A  lustre  on  the  city ;  she  would  bless 

His  name ;  and  that  some  service  should  be  done  her, 

He  pledged  "  life,  fortune,  and  his  sacred  honor." 

XVIII. 

And  when  the  sounds  of  music  and  of  mirth, 

Bursting  from  Fashion's  groups  assembled  there, 

Were  heard,  as  round  their  lone  plebeian  hearth 
Fanny  and  he  were  seated — he  would  dare 

To  whisper  fondly  that  the  time  might  come 

When  he  and  his  could  give  as  brilliant  routs  at  home 

xix.     . 

And  oft  would  Fanny  near  that  mansion  linger, 
When  the  cold  winter  moon  was  high  in  heaven, 

And  trace  out,  by  the  aid  of  Fancy's  finger, 
Cards  for  some  future  party,  to  be  given 

When  she  in  turn  should  be  a  belle,  and  they 

Had  lived  their  little  hour,  and  passed  away. 

xx. 

There  are  some  happy  moments  in  this  lone 
And  desolate  world  of  ours,  that  well  repay 


FANNY.  I0; 

The  toil  of  struggling  through  it,  and  atone 

For  many  a  long,  sad  night  and  weary  day. 
They  come  upon  the  mind  like  some  wild  air 
Of  distant  music,  when  we  know  not  where, 

XXI. 

Or  whence,  the   sounds  are  brought  from,  and  their 

power, 

Though  brief,  is  boundless.     That  far,  future  home, 
Oft  dreamed  of,   beckons  near  —  its   rose  -  wreathed 

bower, 

And  cloudless  skies  before  us  :  we  become 
Changed  on  the  instant — all  gold  leaf  and  gilding ; 
This  is,  in  yulgar  phrase,  called  "  castle-building."* 
• 

XXII. 

But  these,  like  sunset  clouds,  fade  soon  ;  'tis  vain 

To  bid  them  linger  longer,  or  to  ask 
On  what  day  they  intend  to  call  again  ; 

And,  surely,  'twere  a  philosophic  task, 
Worthy  a  Mitchill,  in  his  hours  of  leisure, 
To  find  some  means  to  summon  them  at  pleasure. 

XXIII. 

There  certainly  are  powers  of  doing  this, 
In  some  degree  at  least — for  instance,  drinking. 

Champagne  will  bathe  the  heart  a  while  in  bliss, 
And  keep  the  head  a  little  time  from  thinking 


108  FANNY. 

Of  cares  or  creditors — the  best  wine  in  town 

You'll  get  from  Lynch — the  cash  must  be  paid  down. 

XXIV. 

But  if  you  are  a  bachelor,  like  me, 

And  spurn  all  chains,  even  though  made  of  roses, 
Pd  recommend  cigars — there  is  a  free 

And  happy  spirit,  that,  unseen,  reposes 
On  the  dim  shadowy  clouds  that  hover  o'er  you, 
When  smoking  quietly  with  a  warm  fire  before  you. 


Deaf*  to  the  exile  is  his  native  land,  % 

In  memory's  twilight  beauty  seen  afar  : 

Dear  to  the  broker  is  a  note  of  hand, 
Collaterally  secured — the  polar  star 

Is  dear  at  midnight  to  the  sailor's  eyes, 

And  dear  are  Bristed's  volumes  at  "half  price  ;  " 

XXVI. 

But  dearer  far  to  me  each  fairy  minute 
Spent  in  that  fond  forgetfulness  of  grief; 

There  is  an  airy  web  of  magic  in  it, 
As  in*  Othello's  pocket-handkerchief, 

Veiling  the  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  Sorrow, 

The  gathering  gloom  to-day,  the  thunder-cloud  to- 
morrow. 


FANNY.  I09 

XXVII. 

And  these  are  innocent  thoughts — a  man  may  sit 
Upon  a  bright  throne  of  his  own  creation  : 

Untortured  by  the  ghastly  sprites  that  flit 
Around  the  many,  whose  exalted  station 

Has  been  attained  by  means  'twere  pain  to  hint  on, 

Just  for  the  rhyme's  sake — instance  Mr.  Clinton. 

XXVIII. 

He  struggled  hard,  but  not  in  vain,  and  breathes 
The  mountain-air  at  last ;  but  there  are  others 

Who  strove,  like  him,  to  win  the  glittering  wreaths 
Of  power,  his  early  partisans  and  brothers, 

That  linger  yet  in  dust  from  whence  they  sprung, 

Unhonored  and  unpaid,  though,  luckily,  unhung. 

XXIX. 

'Twas  theirs  to  fill  with  gas  the  huge  balloon 
Of  party ;  and  they  hoped,  when  it  arose, 

To  soar  like  eagles  in  the  blaze  of  noon, 
Above  the  gaping  crowd  of  friends  and  foes. 

Alas  !  like  Guille's  car,  it  soared  .without  them, 

And  left  them  with  a  mob  to  jeer  and  flout  them. 

XXX. 

Though  Fanny's  moonlight  dreams  were  sweet  as  those 
I've  dwelt  so  long  upon — they  were  more  stable ; 


j  IO  FANNY. 

Hers  were  not  "  castles  in  the  air  "  that  rose 
Based  upon  nothing ;  for  her  sire  was  able, 
As  well  she  knew,  to  " buy  out"  the  one-half 
Of  Fashion's  glittering  train,  that  nightly  quaff 

XXXI. 

Wine,  wit,  and  wisdom,  at  a  midnight  rout, 

From  dandy  coachmen,  whose  "  exquisite"  grin 

And  "  ruffian"  lounge  flash  brilliantly  without, 
Down  to  their  brother  dandies  ranged  within, 
.  Gay  as  the  Brussels  carpeting  they  tread  on, 

And  sapient  as  the  oysters  they  are  fed  on. 

XXXII. 

And  Rumor  (she's  a  famous  liar,  yet 
'Tis  wonderful  how  easy  we  believe  her) 

Had  whispered  he  was  rich,  and  all  he  met 

In  Wall  Street,  nodded,  smiled,  and  "tipped  the 
beaver ;  " 

All, — from  Mr.  Gelston,  the  collector, 

Down  to  the  broker,  and  the  bank  director. 

XXXIII. 

A  few  brief  years  passed  over,  and  his  rank 
Among  the  worthies  of  that  street  was  fixed ; 

He  had  become  director  of  a  bank, 
And  six  insurance  offices,  and  mixed 


FANNY. 

Familiarly,  as  one  among  his  peers, 

With  grocers,  dry-goods  merchants,  auctioneers, 

xxxiv. 

Brokers  of  all  grades — stock  and  pawn — and  Jews 
Of  all  religions,  who  at  noonday  form, 

On  'Change,  that  brotherhood  the  moral  muse 
Delights  in,  where  the  heart  is  pure  and  warm, 

And  each  exerts  his  intellectual  force 

To  cheat  his  neighbor — legally,  of  course. 

xxxv. 

And  there  he  shone  a  planetary  star, 
Circled  around  by  lesser  orbs,  whose  beams 

From  his  were  borrowed.     The  simile  is  not  far 
From  truth — for  many  bosom  friends,  it  seems, 

Did  borrow  of  him,  and  sometimes  forget 

To  pay — indeed,  they  have  not  paid  him  yet. 

xxxvi. 

But  these  he  deemed  as  trifles,  when  each  mouth 
Was  open  in  his  praise,  and  plaudits  rose 

Upon  his  willing  ear,  "  like  the  sweet  south 
Upon  a  bank  of  violets,"  from  those 

Who  knew  his  talents,  virtues,  and  so  forth  ; 

That  is — knew  how  much  money  he  was  worth. 


112  FANNY. 

XXXVII. 

Alas !  poor  human  nature ;  had  he  been 
But  satisfied  with  this,  his  golden  days 

Their  setting  hour  of  darkness  had  not  seen, 
And  he  might  still  (in  the  mercantile  phrase) 

Be  living  "  in  good  order  and  condition  ;  " 

But  he  was  ruined  by  that  jade  Ambition, 

XXXVIII. 

"  That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds," 

Whose  spell,  like  whiskey,  your  true  patriot  liquor, 
To  politics  the  lofty  heart  inclines 

Of  all,  from  Clinton  down  to  the  bill-sticker 
Of  a  ward-meeting.  She  came  slyly  creeping 
To  his  bedside,  where  he  lay  snug  and  sleeping. 

xxxix. 

Her  brow  was  turbaned  with  a  bucktail  wreath, 

A  brooch  of  teiarapin  her  bosom  wore, 
Tompkins's  letter  was  just  seen  beneath 

Her  arm,  and  in  her  hand  on  high  she  bore 
A  National  Advocate — Pell's  polite  Review 
Lay  at  her  feet — 'twas  pommelled  black  and  blue. 

XL. 

She  was  in  fashion's  elegant  undress, 
Muffled  from  throat  to  ankle ;  and  her  hair 


FANNY. 

Was  all  "  en  papillotes"  each  auburn  tress 

Prettily  pinned  apart.     You  well  might  swear 
She  was  no  beauty ;  yet,  when  "  made  up  "  ready 
For  visitors,  'twas  quite  another  lady. 

XLI. 

Since  that  wise  pedant,  Johnson,  was  in  fashion, 
Manners  have  changed  as  well  as  moons ;  and  he 

Would  fret  himself  once  more  into  a  passion, 
Should  he  return  (which  Heaven  forbid !)  and  see 

How  strangely  from  his  standard  dictionary 

The  meaning  of  some  words  is  made  to  vary. 

XLII. 

For  instance,  an  undress  at  present  means 
The  wearing  a  pelisse,  a  shawl,  or  so ; 

Or  any  thing  you  please,  in  short,  that  screens 
The  face,  and  hides  the  form  from  top  to  to 3 ; 

Of  power  to  brave  a  quizzing-glass,  or  storm — 

'Tis  worn  in  summer,  when  the  weather's  warm. 

XLIII. 

But  a  full  dress  is  for  a  winter's  night. 

The  most  genteel  is  made  of  "woven  air;  " 
That  kind  of  classic  cobweb,  soft  and  light, 

Which  Lady  Morgan's  Ida  used  to  wear. 
And  ladies,  this  aerial  manner  dressed  in, 
Look  Eve-like,  angel-like,  and  interesting. 


1 14  FANNY. 

XLIV. 

But,  Miss  Ambition  was,  as  I  was  saying, 
"  DkhabilUe  " — his  bedside  tripping  near, 

And,  gently  on  his  nose  her  fingers  laying, 

She  roared  out  "  Tammany !  "  in  his  frighted  ear. 

The  potent  word  awoke  him  from  his  nap, 

And  then  she  vanished,  whispering  verbum  sap. 

XLV. 

The  last  words  were  beyond  his  comprehension, 
For  he  had  left  off  schooling,  ere  the  Greek 

Or  Latin  classics  claimed  his  mind's  attention : 
Besides,  he  often  had  been  heard  to  speak 

Contemptuously  of  all  that  sort  of  knowledge, 

Taught  so  profoundly  in  Columbia  College. 

XLVI. 

We  owe  the  ancients  something.     You  have  read 
Their  works,  no  doubt — at  least  in  a  translation ; 

Yet  there  was  argument  in  what  he  said, 
I  scorn  equivocation  or  evasion, 

And  own  it  must,  in  candor,  be  confessed 

They  were  an  ignorant  set  of  men  at  best. 

XLVII. 

'Twas  their  misfortune  to  be  born  too  soon 
By  centuries,  and  in  the  wrong  place  too ; 


FANNY. 

They  never  saw  a  steamboat,  or  balloon, 

Velocipede,  or  Quarterly  Review ; 
Or  wore  a  pair  of  Baehr's  black  satin  breeches, 
Or  read  an  Almanac,  or  Clinton's  Speeches. 

XLVIII. 

In  short,  in  every  thing  we  far  outshine  them, — 
Art,  science,  taste,  and  talent ;  and  a  stroll 

Through  this  enlightened  city  would  refine  them 
More  than  ten  years'  hard  study  of  the  whole 

Their  genius  has  produced  of  rich  and  rare — 

God  bless  the  Corporation  and  the  Mayor  ! 

XLIX. 

In  sculpture,  we've  a  grace  the  Grecian  master, 
Blushing,  had  owned  his  purest  model  lacks ; 

We've  Mr.  Bogart  in  the  best  of  plaster, 
The  Witch  of  Endor  in  the  best  of  wax, 

Besides  the  head  of  Franklin  on  the  roof 

Of  Mr.  Lang,  both  jest  and  weather-proof. 


And  on  our  City  Hall  a  Justice  stands ; 

A  neater  form  was  never  made  of  board, 
Holding  majestically  in  her  hands 

A  pair  of  steelyards  and  a  wooden  sword  ; 
And  looking  down  with  complaisant  civility — 
Emblem  of  dignity  and  durability. 
6 


Il6  FANNY. 

LI.  * 

In  painting,  we  have  Trumbull's  proud  chefd'ceuvre, 
Blending  in  one  the  funny  and  the  fine : 

His  "  Independence  "  will  endure  forever, 
And  so  witt  Mr.  Allen's  lottery-sign ; 

And  all  that  grace  the  Academy  of  Arts, 

From  Dr.  Hosack's  face  to  Bonaparte's. 

LIT. 

In  architecture,  our  unrivalled  skill 
Cullen's  magnesian  shop  has  loudly  spoken 

To  an  admiring  world ;  and  better  still 
Is  Gautier's  fairy  palace  at  Hoboken. 

In  music,  we've  the  Euterpian  Society, 

And  amateurs,  a  wonderful  variety. 

LIII. 

In  physic,  we  have  Francis  and  McNeven, 
Famed  for  long  heads,  short  lectures,  and  long  bills ; 

And  Quackenboss  and  others,  who  from  heaven 
Were  rained  upon  us  in  a  shower  of  pills ; 

They'd  beat  the  deathless  ^sculapius  hollow, 

And  make  a  starveling  druggist  of  Apollo. 

LIV. 

And  who,  that  ever  slumbered  at  the  Forum, 
But  owns  the  first  of  orators  we  claim  : 


FANNY.  LI7 

Cicero  would  have  bowed  the  knee  before  'em — 
And  for  law  eloquence,  we've  Doctor  Graham. 
Compared  with  him,  their  Justins  and  Quintilians 
Had  dwindled  into  second-rate  civilians. 

LV. 

For  purity  and  chastity  of  style, 

There's  Pell's  preface,  and  puffs  by  Home  and  Waite. 
For  penetration  deep,  and  learned  toil, 

And  all  that  stamps  an  author  truly  great, 
Have  we  not  Bristed's  ponderous  tomes  ?  a  treasure 
For  any  man  of  patience  and  of  leisure. 

LVI. 

Oxonian  Bristed  !  many  a  foolscap  page 
He,  in  his  time,  hath  written,  and  moreover 

(What  few  will  do  in  this  degenerate  age) 
Hath  read  his  own  works,  as  you  may  discover 

By  counting  his  quotations  from  himself— 

You'll  find  the  books  on  any  auction-shelf. 

LVII. 

I  beg  Great  Britain's  pardon ;  'tis  not  meant 
To  claim  this  Oxford  scholar  as  our  own ; 

That  he  was  shipped  off  here  to  represent 
Her  literature  among  us,  is  well  known  ; 

And  none  could  better  fill  the  lofty  station 

Of  Learning's  envoy  from  the  British  nation. 


Il8  FANNY. 

LVIII. 

We  fondly  hope  that  he  will  be  respected 
At  home,  and  soon  obtain  a  place  or  pension. 

We  should  regret  to  see  him  live  neglected, 
Like  Fearon,  Ashe,  and  others  we  could  mention  ; 

Who  paid  us  friendly  visits  to  abuse 

Our  country,  and  find  food  for  the  reviews. 

LIX. 

But  to  return. — The  Heliconian  waters 

Are  sparkling  in  their  native  fount  no  more, 

And  after  years  of  wandering,  the  nine  daughters 
Of  poetry  have  found  upon  our  shore 

A  happier  home,  and  on  their  sacred  shrines 

Glow  in  immortal  ink,  the  polished  lines 

LX. 

Of  Woodworth,  Doctor  Farmer,  Moses  Scott — 
Names  hallowed  by  their  reader's  sweetest  smile; 

And  who  that  reads  at  all  has  read  them  not  ? 
"  That  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle," 

Homer,  was  well  enough ;  but  would  he  ever 

Have  written,  think  ye,  the  Backwoodsman  ?  never. 

% 

LXI. 

Alas !  for  Paulding — I  regret  to  see 
In  such  a  stanza  one  whose  giant  powers, 


FANNY.  I 

Seen  in  their  native  element,  will  be 

Known  to  a  future  age,  the  pride  of  ours. 
There  is  none  breathing  that  can  better  wield 
The  battle-axe  of  satire.     On  its  field 

LXII. 

The  wreath  he  fought  for  he  has  bravely  won, 
Long  be  its  laurel  green  around  his  brow  1 

It  is  too  true,  I'm  somewhat  fond  of  fun 
And  jesting ;  but  for  once  I'm  serious  now. 

Why  is  he  sipping  weak  Castalian  dews  ? 

The  muse  has  damned  him — let  him  damn  the  muse. 

LXIII. 

But  to  return  once  more :  the  ancients  fought 

Some  tolerable  battles.     Marathon 
Is  still  a  theme  for  high  and  holy  thought, 

And  many  a  poet's  lay.     We  linger  on 
The  page  that  tells  us  of  the  brave  and  free, 
And  reverence  thy  name,  unmatched  Thermopylae. 

LXIV. 

And  there  were  spirited  troops  in  other  days — 
The  Roman  legion  and  the  Spartan  band, 

And  Swartwout's  gallant  corps,  the  Iron  Grays — 
Soldiers  who  met  their  foemen  hand  to  hand, 

Or  swore,  at  least,  to  meet  them  undismayed ; 

Yet  what  were  these  to  General  Laight's  brigade 


I2O  FANNY. 

LXV. 

Of  veterans  ?  nursed  in  that  Free  School  of  glory, 
The  New  York  State  Militia.     From  Bellevue, 

E'en  to  the  Battery  flag-staff,  the  proud  story 
Of  their  manoeuvres  at  the  last  review 

Has  rung;  and  Clinton's  "order"  told  afar 

He  never  led  a  better  corps  to  war. 

LXVI. 

What,  Egypt,  was  thy  magic,  to  the  tricks 
Of  Mr.  Charles,  Judge  Spencer,  or  Van  Buren  ? 

The  first  with  cards,  the  last  in  politics, 
A  conjuror's  fame  for  years  have  been  securing. 

And  who  would  now  the  Athenian  dramas  read, 

When  he  can  get  "Wall  Street,"  by  Mr.  Mead? 

LXVII. 

I  might  say  much  about  our  lettered  men, 
Those  "  grave  and  reverend  seigniors,"  who  compose 

Our  learned  societies — but  here  my  pen 
Stops  short ;  for  they  themselves,  the  rumor  goes, 

The  exclusive  privilege  by  patent  claim, 

Of  trumpeting  (as  the  phrase  is)  their  own  fame. 

LXVIII. 

And,  therefore,  I  am  silent.     It  remains 
To  bless  the  hour  the  Corporation  took  it 


FANNY.  121 

Into  their  heads  to  give  the  rich  in  brains 

The  worn-out  mansion  of  the  poor  in  pocket, 
Once  "the  old  almshouse,"  now  a  school  of  wisdom, 
Sacred  to  Scudder's  shells  and  Dr.  Griscom. 

LXIX. 

But  whither  am  I  wandering  ?    The  esteem 

I  bear  "  this  fairy  city  of  the  heart," 
To  me  a  dear  enthusiastic  theme, 

Has  forced  me,  all  unconsciously,  to  part 
Too  long  from  him,  the  hero  of  my  story. 
Where  was  he  ? — waking  from  his  dream  of  glory. 

LXX. 

And  she,  the  lady  of  his  dream,  had  fled, 
And  left  him  somewhat  puzzled  and  confused. 

He  understood,  however,  half  she  said ; 
And  that  is  quite  as  much  as  we  are  used 

To  comprehend,  or  fancy  worth  repeating, 

In  speeches  heard  at  any  public  meeting. 

LXXI. 

And  the  next  evening  found  him  at  the  Hall ; 

There  he  was  welcomed  by  the  qprdial  hand, 
And  met  the  warm  and  friendly  grasp  of  all 

Who  take,  like  watchmen,  there,  their  nightly  stand, 
A  ring,  as  in  a  boxing-match,  procuring, 
To  bet  on  Clinton,  Tompkins,  or  Van  Buren. 


I22  FANNY. 

LXXII. 

'Twas  a  propitious  moment ;  for  a  while 
The  waves  of  party  were  at  rest.     Upon 

Each  complacent  brow  was  gay  good-humor's  smile: 
And  there  was  much  of  wit,  and  jest,  and  pun. 

And  high  amid  the  circle,  in  great  glee, 

Sat  Croaker's  old  acquaintance,  John  Targee. 

LXXIII. 

His  jokes  excelled  the  rest,  and  oft  he  sang 

Songs,  patriotic,  as  in  duty  bound. 
He  had  a  little  of  the  "  nasal  twang 

Heard  at  conventicle ;  "  but  yet  you  found 
In  him  a  dash  of  purity  and  brightness, 
That  spoke  the  man  of  taste  and  of  politeness. 
• 

LXXIV. 

For  he  had  been,  it  seems,  the  bosom  friend 
Of  England's  prettiest  bard,  Anacreon  Moore. 

They  met,  when  he,  the  bard,  came  here  to  lend 
His  mirth  and  music  to  this  favorite  shore ; 

For,  as  the  proverb  saith,  "birds  of  a  feather 

Instinctively  will  flock  and  fly  together." 

LXXV. 

The  winds  that  wave  thy  cedar-boughs  are  breathing, 
"  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp  !  "  that  poet's  name ; 


FANNY.  I23 

And  the  spray-showers  their  noonday  halos  wreathing 

Around  "  Cohoes,"  are  brightened  by  his  fame. 
And  bright  its  sunbeam  o'er  St.  Lawrence  smiles, 

Her  million  lilies,  and  her  thousand  isles. 

• 

LXXVI. 

We  hear  his  music  in  her  carmen's  lay, 

And   where   her    church-bells    "toll    the    evening 

chime ;  " 
Yet  when  to  him  the  grateful  heart  would  pay 

Its  homage,  now,  and  in  all  coming  time, 
Up  springs  a  doubtful  question  whether  we 
Owe  it  to  Tara's  minstrel  or  Targee. 

LXXVII. 

Together  oft  they  wandered — many  a  spot 
Now  consecrated,  as  the  minstrel's  theme, 

By  words  of  beauty  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
Their  mutual  feet  have  trod ;  and  when  the  stream 

Of  thought  and  feeling  flowed  in  mutual  speech, 

'Twere  vain  to  tell  how  much  each  taught  to  each. 

LXXVI  1 1. 

But,  from  the  following  song,  it  would  appear 

That  he  of  Erin  from  the  sachem  took 
The  model  of  his  "  Bower  of  Bendemeer," 

One  of  the  sweetest  airs  in  Lalla  Rookh ; 


124  FANNY. 

'Tis  to  be  hoped  that,  in  his  next  edition, 
This,  the  original,  will  find  admission  : 


SONG. 

There's  a  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall, 

And   the  bucktails  are  swigging  it  all    the   night 
long; 

In  the  time  of  my  boyhood  'twas  pleasant  to  call 
For  a  seat  and  cigar,  'mid  the  jovial  throng. 

That  beer  and  those  bucktails  I  never  forget ; 

But  oft,  when  alone,  and  unnoticed  by  all, 
I  think,  is  the  porter-cask  foaming  there  yet  ? 

Are  the  bucktails  still  swigging  at  Tammany  Hall  ? 

No  !  the  porter  was  out  long  before  it  was  stale, 

But    some    blossoms    on     many    a    hose    brightly 
shone, 

And  the  speeches  inspired  by  the  fumes  of  the  ale, 
Had  the  fragrance  of  porter  when  porter  was  gone. 


How  much   Cozzens  will  draw  of  such  beer  ere  he 
dies, 

Is  a  question  of  moment  to  me  and  to  all ; 
For  still  dear  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  my  eyes, 

Is  that  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall. 


FANNY.  12$ 

SONG. 

There's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream, 
And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  night  long  ; 

In  the  time  of  my  childhood  'twas  like  a  sweet  dream 
To  sit  in  the  roses  arid  hear  the  bird's  song. 

That  bower  and  its  music  I  never  forget ; 

But  oft,  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the  year, 
I  think,  is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet  ? 

Are  the  roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Bendemeer  ? 

No  !  the  roses  soon  withered  that  hung  o'er  the  wave, 
But  some  blossoms  were  gathered  when  freshly  they 
shone ; 

And  a  dew  was  distilled  from  their  flowers,  that  gave 
All  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer  was  gone, 

Thus  memory  draws  from  delight  ere  it  dies, 
An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year ; 

Thus  bright  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  my  eyes, 
Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm  Bendemeer. 

LXXIX. 

For  many  months  my  hero  ne'er  neglected 
To  take  his  ramble  there,  and  soon  found  out, 

In  much  less  time  than  one  could  have  expected, 
What  'twas  they  all  were  quarrelling  about. 


126  FANNr. 

He  learned  the  party  countersigns  by  rote, 
And  when  to  clap  his  hands,  and  how  to  vote. 


LXXX. 

He  learned  that  Clinton  became. Governor 

Somehow  by  chance,  when  we  were  all  asleep  ; 

That  he  had  neither  sense,  nor  talent,  nor 
Any  good  quality,  and  would  not  keep 

His  place  an  hour  after  the  next  election — 

So  powerful  was  the  voice  of  disaffection  : 

LXXXI. 

That  he  was  a  mere  puppet  made  to  play 
A    thousand    tricks,    while    Spencer    touched    the 
springs — 

Spencer,  the  mighty  Warwick  of  his  day, 
"  That  setter  up  and  puller  down  of  kings," 

Aided  by  Miller,  Pell,  and  Doctor  Graham, 

And  other  men  of  equal  worth  and  fame  : 

LXXXII. 

And  that  he'd  set  the  people  at  defiance, 

By  placing  knaves  and  fools  in  public  stations  ; 

And  that  his  works  in  literature  and- science 
Were  but  a  schoolboy's  web  of  misquotations  ; 

And  that  he  quoted  from  the  devil  even — 

"  Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven." 


FANNY.  127 

LXXXIII. 

To  these  authentic  facts  each  bucktail  swore  ; 

But  Clinton's  friends  averred,  in  contradiction, 
They  were  but  fables,  told  by  Mr.  Noah, 

Who  had  a  privilege  to  deal  in  fiction, 
Because  he'd  written  travels,  and  a  melo- 
Drama ;  and  was,  withal,  a  pleasant  fellow. 

LXXXIV. 

And  they  declared  that  Tompkins  was  no  better 
Than  he  should  be ;  that  he  had  borrowed  money, 

And  paid  it — not  in  cash — but  with  a  letter ; 
And,  though  some  trifling  service  he  had  done,  he 

Still  wanted  spirit,  energy,  and  fire  ; 

And  was  disliked  by — Mr.  Mclntyre. 

LXXXV. 

In  short,  each  one  with  whom  in  conversation 
He  joined,  contrived  to  give  him  different  views 

Of  men  and  measures ;  and  the  information 
Which  he  obtained,  but  aided  to  confuse 

His  brain.     At  best,  'twas  never  very  clear ; 

And  now  'twas  turned  with  politics  and  beer. 

LXXXVI. 

And  he  was  puffed,  and  flattered,  and  caressed 
By  all,  till  he  sincerely  thought  that  Nature 


128  FANNY. 

Had  formed  him  for  an  alderman  at  least — 

Perhaps,  a  member  of  the  Legislature ; 
And  that  he  had  the  talents,  ten  times  over, 
Of  Henry  Meigs,  or  Peter  H.  Wendover. 

LXXXVII. 

The  man  was  mad,  'tis  plain,  and  merits  pity, 
Or  he  had  never  dared,  in  such  a  tone, 

To  speak  of  two  great  persons,  whom  the  city 
With  pride  and  pleasure  points  to  as  her  own — 

Men  wise  in  council,  brilliant  in  debate, 

"The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state." 

LXXXVIII. 

The  one — for  a  pure  style  and  classic  manner, 

Is — Mr.  Sachem  Mooney  far  before  ; 
The  other,  in  his  speech  about  the  banner, 

Spell-bound  his  audience  until  they  swore 
That  such  a  speech  was  never  heard  till  then, 
And  never  would  be — till  he  spoke  again. 

LXXXIX. 

Though  'twas  presumptuous  in  this  friend  of  ours 
To  think  of  rivalling  these,  I  must  allow 

That  still  the  man  had  talents ;  and  the  powers 
Of  his  capacious  intellect  were  now 

Improved  by  foreign  travel,  and  by  reading, 

And  at  the  Hall  he'd  learned,  of  course,  good-breeding 


FANNY. 
XC. 

He  had  read  the  newspapers  with  great  attention, 
Advertisements  and  all ;  and  Riley's  book 

Of  travels — valued  for  its  rich  invention  ; 

And  Day  and  Turner's  Price  Current ;  and  took 

The  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews  ; 

And  also  Colonel  Pell's  ;  and  to  amuse 

xci. 

His  leisure  hours  with  classic  tale  and  story, 
Longworth's  Directory,  and  Mead's  Wall  Street, 

And  Mr.  Delaplaine's  Repository ; 

And  Mitchill's  scientific  works  complete, 

With  other  standard  books  of  modern  days, 

Lay  on  his  table,  covered  with  green  baize. 

XCII. 

His  travels  had  extended  to  Bath  races ; 

And  Bloomingdale  and  Bergen  he  had  seen, 
And  Harlem  Heights ;  and  many  other  places, 

By  sea  and  land,  had  visited ;  and  been, 
In  a  steamboat  of  the  Vice-President's,. 
To  Staten  Island  once — for  fifty  cents. 

xcm. 

And  he  had  dined,  by  special  invitation, 
On  turtle,  with  "  the  party"  at  Hoboken  ; 


129 


130  FANNY. 

And  thanked  them  for  his  card  in  an  oration, 

Declared  to  be  the  shortest  ever  spoken. 
And  he  had  strolled  one  day  o'er  Weehawk  hill : 
A  day  worth  all  the  rest — he  recollects  it  still. 

xciv. 

VVeehawken  ! — In  thy  mountain  scenery  yet, 

All  we  adore  of  Nature,  in  her  wild 
And  frolic  hour  of  infancy,  is  met ; 

And  never  has  a  summer's  morning  smiled 
Upon  a  lovelier  scene,  than  the  full  eye 
Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on — when  high 

xcv. 

Amid  thy  forest  solitudes,  he  climbs 

O'er  crags,  that  proudly  tower  above  the  deep, 

And  knows  that  sense  of  danger  which  sublimes 
The  breathless  moment — when  his  daring  step 

Is  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  can  hear 

The  low  dash  of  the  wave  with  startled  ear — 

xcvi. 

Like  the  death-music  of  his  coming  doom. 

And  clings  to  the  green  turf  with  desperate  force, 
As  the  heart  clings  to  life ;  and  when  resume 

The  currents  in  his  veins  their  wonted  course, 
There  lingers  a  deep  feeling — like  the  moan 
Of  wearied  ocean,  when  the  storm  is  gone. 


FANNY.  j^ 

XCVII. 

In  such  an  hour  he  turns,  and  on  his  view, 
Ocean,  and  earth,  and  heaven,  burst  before  him  ; 

Clouds  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  the  clear  blue 
Of  summer's  sky  in  beauty  bending  o'er  him — 

The  city  bright  below ;  and  far  away, 

Sparkling  in  golden  light,  his  own  romantic  bay. 

XCVIII. 

Tall  spire,  and  glittering  roof,  and  battlement, 
And  banners  floating  in  the  sunny  air ; 

And  white  sails  o'er  the  calm  blue  waters  bent, 
Green  isle,  and  circling  shore,  are  blended  there 

In  wild  reality.     When  life  is  old, 

And  many  a  scene  forgot,  the  heart  will  hold 

xcix. 

Its  memory  of  this ;  nor  lives  there  one 

Whose  infant  breath  was  drawn,  or  boyhood's  days 
Of  happiness  were  passed  beneath  that  sun, 

That  in  his  manhood's  prime  can  calmly  gaze 
Upon  that  bay,  or  on  that  mountain  stand, 
Nor  feel  the  prouder  of  his  native  land. 


"  This  may  be  poetry,  for  aught  I  know," 

Said  an  old,  worthy  friend  of  mine,  while  leaning 


132  FANNY. 

Over  my  shoulders  as  I  wrote ;  "  although 
I  can't  exactly  comprehend  its  meaning. 
For  my  part,  I  have  long  been  a  petitioner 
To  Mr.  John  McComb,  the  Street  Commissioner — 

Ci. 

"  That  he  would  think  of  Weehawk,  and  would  lay  it 
Handsomely  out  in  avenue  and  square ; 

Then  tax  the  land  and  make  its  owners  pay  it 
(As  is  the  usual  plan  pursued  elsewhere) ; 

Blow  up  the  rocks,  and  sell  the  wood  for  fuel — 

'Twould  save  us  many  a  dollar,  and  a  duel." 

.    Cil. 

"  The  devil  take  you  and  John  McComb,"  said  I ; 

"  Lang,  in  its  praise,  has  penned  one  paragraph, 
And  promised  me  another.     I  defy, 

With  such  assistance,  yours  and  the  world's  laugh  ; 
And  half  believe  that  Paulding,  on  this  theme, 
Might  be  a  poet — strange  as  it  may  seem." 

cm. 

For  even  our  traveller  felt,  -when  home  returning 
From  that  day's  tour,  as  on  the  deck  he  stood, 

The  fire  of  poetry  within  him  burning ; 
"  Albeit  unused  to  the  rhyming  mood ;  " 

And  with  a  pencil  on  his  knee  he  wrote 

The  following  naming  lines 


FANNY.  133 


TO    THE    HORSEBOAT. 


I. 


Away — o'er  the  wave  to  the  home  we  are  seeking, 
Bark  of  my  hope  !  ere  the  evening  be  gone ; 

There's  a  wild,  wild  note  in  the  curlew's  shrieking ; 
There's  a  whisper  of  death  in  the  wind's  low  moan, 


2. 


Though  blue  and  bright  are  the  heavens  above  me, 
And  the  stars  are  asleep  on  the  quiet  sea ; 

And  hearts  I  love,  and  hearts  that  love  me, 
Are  beating  beside  me  merrily: 


Yet,  far  in  the  west,  where  the  day's  faded  roses, 
Touched  by  the  moonbeam,  are  withering  fast ; 

Where  the  half-seen  spirit  of  twilight  reposes, 
Hymning  the  dirge  of  the  hours  that  are  past- 


There,  where  the  ocean-wave  sparkles  at  meeting 
(As  sunset  dreams  tell  us)  the  kiss  of  the  sky, 

On  his  dim,  dark  cloud  is  the  infant  storm  sitting, 
And  beneath  the  horizon  his  lightnings  are  nigh. 


I34  FANNY. 

5- 

Another  hour — and  the  death-word  is  given, 
Another  hour — and  his  lightnings  are  here ; 

Speed !  speed  thee,  my  bark ;  ere  the  breeze  of  even 
Is  lost  in  the  tempest,  our  home  will  be  near. 


Then  away  o'er  the  wave,  while  thy  pennant  is  stream- 
ing 

In  the  shadowy  light,  like  a  shooting-star; 
Be  swift  as  the  thought  of  the  wanderer,  dreaming, 

In  a  stranger  land,  of  his  fireside  afar. 

7- 

And  while  memory  lingers  I'll  fondly  believe  thee 
A  being  with  life  and  its  best  feelings  warm  ;  • 

And  freely  the  wild  song  of  gratitude  weave  thee, 
Blessed  spirit !  that  bore  me  and  mine  from  the  storm. 


Civ. 

But  where  is  Fanny  ?     She  has  long  been  thrown 
Where  cheeks  and  roses  wither — in  the  shade. 

The  age  of  chivalry,  you  know,  is  gone ; 
And  although,  as  I  once  before  have  said, 

I  love  a  pretty  face  to  adoration, 

Yet,  still,  I  must  preserve  my  reputation, 


FANNY. 
CV. 

As  a  true  dandy  of  the  modern  schools. 

One  hates  to  be  old-fashioned ;  it  would  be 
A  violation  of  the  latest  rules, 

To  treat  the  sex  with  too  much  courtesy. 
Tis  not  to  worship  beauty,  as  she  glows 
In  all  her  diamond  lustre,  that  the  beaux 

CVI. 

Of  these  enlightened  days  at  evening  crowd, 
Where  Fashion  welcomes  in  her  rooms  of  light 

That  "dignified  obedience;  that  proud 

Submission,"  which,  in  times  of  yore,  the  knight 

Gave  to  his  "ladye-love,"  is  now  a  scandal, 

And  practised  only  by  your  Goth  and  Vandal. 

CVII. 

•To  lounge  in  graceful  attitudes — be  stared 
Upon,  the  while,  by  every  fair  one's  eye, 
And  stare  one's  self,  in  turn  :  to  be  prepared 

To  dart  upon  the  trays,  as  swiftly  by 
The  dexterous  Simon  bears  them,  and  to  take 
One's  share  at  least  of  coffee,  cream,  and  cake, 

CVIII. 

Is  now  to  be  "  the  ton."    The  pouting  lip, 
And  sad,  upbraiding  eye  of  the  poor  girl, 


136  FANNY. 

Who  hardly  of  joy's  cup  one  drop  can  sip, 
Ere  in  the  wild  confusion,  and  the  whirl, 
And  tumult  of  the  hour,  its  bubbles  vanish, 
Must  now  be  disregarded.     One  must  banish 

cix. 

Those  antiquated  feelings,  that  belong 
To  feudal  manners  and  a  barbarous  age. 

Time  was — when  woman  "  poured  her  soul  "  in  song, 
That  all  was  hushed  around.     'Tis  now  "  the  rage  " 

To  deem  a  song,  like  bugle-tones  in  battle, 

A  signal-note,  that  bids  each  tongue's  artillery  rattle. 

ex. 

And,  therefore,  I  have  made  Miss  Fanny  wait 
My  leisure.     She  had  changed,  as  you  will  see,  as 

Much  as  her  worthy  sire,  and  made  as  great 
Proficiency  in  taste  and  high  ideas. 

The  careless  smile  of  other  days  was  gone, 

And  every  gesture  spoke  "  qu'en  dira-t-on?" 

CXI. 

She  long  had  known  that  in  her  father's  coffers. 

And  also  to  his  credit  in  the  banks, 
There  was  some  cash ;  and  therefore  all  the  offers 

Made  her,  by  gentlemen  of  the  middle  ranks, 
Of  heart  and  hand,  had  spurned,  as  far  beneath 
One  whose  high  destiny  it  was  to  breathe, 


FANNY. 
CXII. 

Ere  long,  the  air  of  Broadway  or  Park  Place, 
And  reign  a  fairy  queen  in  fairy  land ; 

Display  in  the  gay  dance  her  form  of  grace, 
Or  touch  with  rounded  arm  and  gloveless  hand, 

Harp  or  piano. — Madame  Catilani 

Forgot  awhile,  and  every  eye  on  Fanny. 

CXIII. 

And  in  anticipation  of  that  hour, 

Her  star  of  hope,  her  paradise  of  thought, 

She'd  had  as  many  masters  as  the  power 
Of  riches  could  bestow ;  and  had  been  taught 

The  thousand  nameless  graces  that  adorn 

The  daughters  of  the  wealthy  and  high-born. 

CXIV. 

She  had  been  noticed  at  some  public  places 
(The  Battery,  and  the  balls  of  Mr.  Whale), 

For  hers  was  one  of  those  attractive  faces, 
That  when  you  gaze  upon  them,  never  fail 

To  bid  you  look  again ;  there  was  a  beam, 

A  lustre  in  her  eye,  that  oft  would  seem 

cxv. 

A  little  like  effrontery  ;  and  yet 
The  lady  meant  no  harm  ;  her  only  aim 


138  FANNY. 

Was  but  to  be  admired  by  all  she  met, 

And  the  free  homage  of  the  heart  to  claim ; 
And  if  she  showed  too  plainly  this  intention, 
Others  have  done  the  same — 'twas  not  of  her  invention. 

CXVI. 

She  shone  at  every  concert ;  where  are  bought 
Tickets  by  all  who  wish  them,  for  a  dollar ; 

She  patronized  the  Theatre,  and  thought 
That  Wallack  looked  extremely  well  in  Rolla ; 

She  fell  in  love,  as  all  the  ladies  do, 

With  Mr.  Simpson — talked  as  loudly,  too, 

CXVII. 

As  any  beauty  of  the  highest  grade, 
To  the  gay  circle  in  the  box  beside  her ; 

And  when  the  pit — half  vexed  and  half  afraid, 
With  looks  of  smothered  indignation  eyed  her, 

She  calmly  met  their  gaze,  and  stood  before  'em, 

Smiling  at  vulgar  taste  and  mock  decorum. 

CXVIII. 

And  though  by  no  means  a  bas  bleu,  she  had 
For  literature  a  most  becoming  passion  ; 

Had  skimmed  the  latest  novels,  good  and  bad, 
And  read  the  Croakers,  when  they  were  in  fashion  ; 

And  Dr.  Chalmers'  sermons  of  a  Sunday ; 

And  Woodworth's  Cabinet,  and  the  new  Salmagundi. 


FANNY.  I39 

exix. 

She  was  among  the  first  and  warmest  patrons 

Of  Griscom's  conversaziones,  where 
In  rainbow  groups,  our  bright-eyed  maids  and  matrons, 

On  science  bent,  assemble ;  to  prepare 
Themselves  for  acting  well,  in  life,  their  part 
As  wives  and  mothers.     There  she  learned  by  heart 

cxx. 

Words,  to  the  witches  in  Macbeth  unknown. 

Hydraulics,  hydrostatics,  and  pneumatics, 
Dioptrics,  optics,  katoptrics,  carbon, 

Chlorine,  and  iodine,  and  aerostatics  ; 
Also, — why  frogs,  for  want  of  air,  expire ; 
And  how  to  set  the  Tappan  Sea  on  fire  ! 

cxxi. 

In  all  the  modern  languages  she  was 
Exceedingly  well-versed ;  and  had  devoted, 

To  their  attainment,  far  more  time  than  has, 
By  the  best  teachers,  lately  been  allotted ; 

For  she  had  taken  lessons,  twice  a  week, 

For  a  full  month  in  each ;  and  she  could  speak 

CXXII. 

French  and  Italian,  equally  as  well 
As  Chinese,  Portuguese,  or  German  ;  and, 
7 


140  FANNY. 

What  is  still  more  surprising,  she  could  spell 

Most  of  our  longest  English  words  off-hand ; 
Was  quite  familiar  in  Low  Dutch  and  Spanish, 
And  thought  of  studying  modern  Greek  and  Danish. 

CXXIII. 

She  sang  divinely ;  and  in  "  Love's  young  dream  " 
And  "  Fanny  dearest,"  and  "  The  soldier's  bride  ;  " 

And  every  song,  whose  dear  delightful  theme, 
Is  "  Love,  still  love,"  had  oft  till  midnight  tried 

Her  finest,  loftiest  "  pigeon-wings  "  of  sound, 

Waking  the  very  watchmen  far  around. 

cxxiv. 

For  her  pure  taste  in  dress,  I  can  appeal  to 
Madame  Bouquet,  and  Monsieur  Pardessus ; 

She  was,  in  short,  a  woman  you  might,  kneel  to, 
If  kneeling  were  in  fashion ;  or  if  you 

Were  wearied  of  your  duns  and  single  life, 

And  wanted  a  few  thousands  and  a  wife. 


cxxv. 


FANNY.  I4I 

CXXVI. 

1  There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night ;  " 

Broadway  was  thronged  with  coaches,  and  within 
A  mansion  of  the  best  of  brick,  the  bright 
And  eloquent  eyes  of  beauty  bade  begin 
The  dance ;  and  music's  tones  swelled  wild  and  high, 
And  hearts  and  heels  kept  tune  in  tremulous  ecstasy. 

CXXVI  I. 

For  many  a  week,  the  note  of  preparation 
Had  sounded  through  all  circles  far  and  near ; 

And  some  five  hundred  cards  of  invitation 
Bade  beau  and  belle  in  full  costume  appear ; 

There  was  a  most  magnificent  variety, 

All  quite  select,  and  of  the  first  society. 

CXXVI  II. 

That  is  to  say — the  rich  and  the  well-bred, 

The  arbiters  of  fashion  and  gentility, 
In  different  grades  of  splendor,  from  the  head 

Down  to  the  very  toe  of  our  nobility  : 
Ladies,  remarkable  for  handsome  eyes 
Or  handsome  fortunes — learned  men,  and  wise 

cxxix. 

Statesmen,  and  officers  of  the  militia — 
In  short,  the  "  first  society  "—a  phrase, 


142  FANNY. 

Which  you  may  understand  as  best  may  fit  you ; 

Besides  the  blackest  fiddlers  of  those  days, 
Placed  like  their  sire,  Timotheus,  on  high, 
With  horsehair  fiddle-bows  and  teeth  of  ivory. 

cxxx. 

The  carpets  were  rolled  up  the  day  before, 
And,  with  a  breath,  two  rooms  became  but  one, 

Like  man  and  wife — and,  on  the  polished  floor, 
Chalk  in  the  artists'  plastic  hand  had  done 

All  that  chalk  could  do — in  young  Eden's  bowers 

They  seemed  to  tread,  and  their  feet  pressed  on  flowers. 

cxxxi 

And  when  the  thousand  lights  of  spermaceti 

Streamed  like  a  shower  of  sunbeams — and  free  tresses 

Wild  as  the  heads  that  waved  them — and  a  pretty 
Collection  of  the  latest  Paris  dresses 

Wandered  about  the  room  like  things  divine. 

It  was,  as  I  was  told,  extremely  fine. 

CXXXII. 

The  love  of  fun,  fine  faces,  and  good  eating, 
Brought  many  who  were  tired  of  self  and  home ; 

And  some  were  there  in  the  high  hope  of  meeting 
The  lady  of  their  bosom's  love — and  some 

To  study  that  deep  science,  how  to  please, 

And  manners  in  high  life,  and  high-souled  courtesies. 


FANNY. 
CXXXIII. 

And  he,  the  hero  of  the  night  was  there, 
In  breeches  of  light  drab,  and  coat  of  blue. 

Taste  was  conspicuous  in  his  powdered  hair, 
And  in  his  frequent  jeux  de  mots,  that  drew 

Peals  of  applauses  from  the  listeners  round, 

Who  were  delighted — as  in  duty  bound. 

CXXXIV. 

'Twas  Fanny's  father — Fanny  near  him  stood, 
Her  power,  resistless — and  her  wish,  command ; 

And  Hope's  young  promises  were  all  made  good  ; 
"  She  reigned  a  fairy  queen  in  fairy  land ;  " 

Her  dream  of  infancy  a  dream  no  more, 

And  then  how  beautiful  the  dress  she  wore  ! 

cxxxv. 

Ambition  with  her  sire  had  kept  her  word. 

He  had  the  rose,  no  matter  for  its  thorn, 
And  he  seemed  happy  as  a  summer  bird, 

Careering  on  wet  wing  to  meet  the  morn. 
Some  said  there  was  a  cloud  upon  his  brow ; 
It  might  be — but  we'll  not  discuss  that  now. 

cxxxvi. 

I  left  him  making  rhymes  while  crossing  o'er 
The  broad  and  perilous  wave  of  the  North  River. 


144  FANNY. 

He  bade  adieu,  when  safely  on  the  shore, 

To  poetry — and,  as  he  thought,  forever. 
That  night  his  dream  (if  after-deeds  make  known 
Our  plans  in  sleep)  was  an  enchanting  one. 

CXXXVII. 

He  woke,  in  strength,  like  Samson  from  his  slumber, 
And  walked  Broadway,  enraptured  the  next  day ; 

Purchased  a  house  there — I've  forgot  the  number— 
And  signed  a  mortgage  and  a  bond,  for  pay. 

Gave,  in  the  slang  phrase,  Pearl  Street  the  go-by, 

And  cut,  for  several  months,  St*  Tammany. 

CXXXVIII. 

Bond,  mortgage,  title-deeds,  and  all  completed, 
He  bought  a  coach  and  half  a  dozen  horses 

(The  bill's  at  Lawrence's — not  yet  receipted — 
You'll  find  the  amount  upon  his  list  of  losses), 

Then  filled  his  rooms  with  servants,  and  whatever 

Is  necessary  for  a  "  genteel  liver." 

cxxxix. 

This  last  re'moval  fixed  him  :  every  stain 
Was  blotted  from  his  "  household  coat,"  and  he 

Now  "showed  the  world  he  was  a  gentleman," 
And,  what  is  better,  could  afford  to  be  j 

His  step  was  loftier  than  it  was  of  old, 

His  laugh  less  frequent,  and  his  manner  told 


FANNY.  j^ 

CXL. 

What  lovers  call  "unutterable  things  " — 

That  sort  of  dignity  was  in  his  mien 
Which  awes  the  gazer  into  ice,  and  brings 

To  recollection  some  great  man  we've  seen, 
The  Governor,  perchance,  whose  eye  and  frown, 
'Twas  shrewdly  guessed,  would  knock  Judge  Skinner 
down. 

CXLI. 

And  for  "  Resources,"  both  of  purse  and  head, 
He  was  a  subject  worthy  Bristed's  pen  v 

Believed  devoutly  all  his  flatterers  said, 

And  deemed  himself  a  Crcesus  among  men  ; 

Spread  to  the  liberal  air  his  silken  sails, 

And  lavished  guineas  like  a  Prince  of  Wales. 

CXLII. 

He  mingled  now  with  those  within  whose  veins 
The  blood  ran  pure — the  magnates  of  the  land — 

Hailed  them  as  his  companions  and  his  friends, 
And  lent  them  money  and  his  note  of  hand. 

In  every  institution,  whose  proud  aim 

Is  public  good  alone,  he  soon  became 

CXLIII. 

A  man  of  consequence  and  notoriety; 
His  name,  with  the  addition  of  esquire, 


146  FANNY. 

Stood  high  upon  the  list  of  each  society, 

Whose  zeal  and  watchfulness  the  sacred  fire 
Of  science,  agriculture,  art,  and  learning, 
Keep  on  our  country's  altars  bright  and  burning. 

CXLIV. 

At  Eastburn's  Rooms  he  met,  at  two  each  day, 
With  men  of  taste  and  judgment  like  his  own, 

And  played  "  first  fiddle  "  in  that  orchestra 
Of  literary  worthies — and  the  tone 

Of  his  mind's  music  by  the  listeners  caught, 

Is  traced  among  them  still  in  language  and  in  thought 

CXLV. 

He  once  made  the  Lyceum  a  choice  present 
Of  muscle-shells  picked  up  at  Rockaway ; 

And  Mitchill  gave  a  classical  and  pleasant 
Discourse  about  them  in  the  streets  that  day, 

Naming  the  shells,  and  hard  to  put  in  verse  'twas 
u  Testaceous  coverings  of  bivalve  molluscas." 

CXLVI. 

He  was  a  trustee  of  a  Savings  Bank, 

And  lectured  soundly  every  evil-doer, 
Gave  dinners  daily  to  wealth,  power,  and  rank, 

And  sixpence  every  Sunday  to  the  poor  ; 
He  was  a  wit,  .in  the  pun-making  line — 
Past  fifty  years  of  age,  and  five  feet  nine. 


FANNY. 
CXLVII. 

But  as  he  trod  to  grandeur's  pinnacle, 
With  eagle  eye  and  step  that  never  faltered, 

The  busy  tongue  of  scandal  dared  to  tell 

That  cash  was  scarce  with  him,  and  credit  altered ; 

And  while  he  stood  the  envy  of  beholders, 

The  Bank  Directors  grinned,  and  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders. 

CXLVIJT. 

r     » 

And  when  these,  the  Lord  Burleighs  of  the  minute, 
Shake  their  sage  heads,  and  look  demure  and  holy, 

Depend  upon  it  there  is  something  in  it ; 
For  whether  born  of  wisdom  or  of  folly. 

Suspicion  is  a  being  whose  fell  power 

Blights  every  thing  it  touches,  fruit  and  flower. 

CXLIX. 

Some  friends  (they  were  his  creditors)  once  hinted 
About  retrenchment  and  a  day  of  doom  ; 

He  thanked  them,  as  no  doubt  they  kindly  meant  it, 
And  made  this  speech  when  they  had  left  the  room  : 

"  Of  all  the  curses  upon  mortals  sent, 

One's  creditors  are  the  most  impudent ; 

CL. 

"  Now  I  am  one  who  knows  what  he  is  doing, 
And  suits  exactly  to  his  means  his  ends  ; 


I48  FANNY. 

How  can  a  man  be  in  the  path  to  ruin, 

When  all  the  brokers  are  his  bosom  friends? 
Yet,  on  my  hopes,  and  those  of  my  dear  daughter, 
These  rascals  throw  a  bucket  of  cold  water  1 

CLI. 

"They'd  wrinkle  with  deep  cares  the  prettiest  face, 
Pour  gall  and  wormwood  in  the  sweetest  cup, 

Poison  the  very  wells  of  life — and  place 
Whitechapel  needles,  with  their  sharp  points  up, 

Even  in  the  softest  feather  bed  that  e'er 

Was  manufactured  by  upholsterer." 

CLII. 

This  said — he  journeyed  "at  his  own  sweet  will," 
Like  one  of  Wordsworth's  rivers,  calmly  on ; 

But  yet,  at  times,  Reflection,. "in  her  still 

Small  voice,  "would  whisper,  something  must  be  done; 

He  asked  advice  of  Fanny,  and  the  maid 

Promptly  and  duteously  lent  her  aid. 

CLIII. 

She  told  him,  with  that  readiness  of  mind 
And  quickness  of  perception  which  belong 

Exclusively  to  gentle  womankind, 

That  to  submit  to  slanderers  was  wrong, 

And  the  best  plan  to  silence  and  admonish  them, 

Would  be  to  give  "  a  party  " — and  astonish  them. 


FANNY.  140, 

CLIV. 

The  hint  was  taken— and  the  party  given ; 

And  Fanny,  as  I  said  some  pages  since, 
Was  there  in  power  and  loveliness  that  even, 

And  he,  her  sire,  demeaned  him  like  a  prince, 
And  all  was  joy — it  looked  a  festival, 
Where  pain  might  smooth  his  brow,   and  grief  her 
smiles  recall. 

CLV. 

But  Fortune,  like  some  others  of  her  sex, 
Delights  in  tantalizing  and  tormenting ; 

One  day  we  feed  upon  their  smiles — the  next 
Is  spent  in  swearing,  sorrowing,  and  repenting. 

(If  in  the  last  four  lines  the  author  lies, 

He's  always  ready  to  apologize.) 

CLVI. 

Eve  never  walked  in  Paradise  more  pure 

Than  on  that  morn  when  Satan  played  the  devil, 

With  her  and  all  her  race.     A  love-sick  wooer 
Ne'er  asked  a  kinder  maiden,  or  more  civil, 

Than  Cleopatra  was  to  Antony 

The  day  she  left  him  on  the  Ionian  sea. 

CLVII. 

The  serpent — loveliest  in  his  coiled  ring, 
With  eye  that  charms,  and  beauty  that  outvies 


l$0  FANNY 

The  tints  of  the  rainbow — bears  upon  his  sting 
The  deadliest  venom.     Ere  the  dolphin  dies 
Its  hues  are  brightest.     Like  an  infant's  breath 
Are  tropic  winds  before  the  voice  of  death 

CLVIII. 

Is  heard  upon  the  waters,  summoning 
The  midnight  earthquake  from  its  sleep  of  years 

To  do  its  task  of  woe.     The  clouds  that  fling 
The  lightning,  brighten  ere  the  bolt  appears ; 

The  pantings  of  the  warrior's  heart  are  proud 

Upon  that  battle  morn  whose  night-dews  wet  his  shroud  \ 

CLIX. 

The  sun  is  loveliest  as  he  sinks  to  rest ; 

The  leaves  of  autumn  smile  when  fading  fast ; 
The  swan's  last  song  is  sweetest — and  the  best 

Of  Meigs's  speeches,  doubtless,  was  his  last. 
And  thus  the  happiest  scene,  in  these  my  rhymes, 
Closed  with  a  crash ,  and  ushered  in — hard  times. 

CLX. 

St.  Paul's  tolled  one — and  fifteen  minutes  after 
Down  came,  by  accident,  a  chandelier ; 

The  mansion  tottered  from  the  floor  to  rafter ! 
Up  rose  the  cry  of  agony  and  fear  ! 

And  there  was  shrieking,  screaming,  bustling,  fluttering, 

Beyond  the  power  of  writing  or  of  uttering. 


FANNY.  jjji 

CLXI. 

The  company  departed,  and  neglected 
To  say  good-by — the  father  stormed  and  swore — 

The  fiddlers  grinned — the  daughter  looked  dejected— 
The  flowers  had  vanished  from  the  polished  floor, 

And  both  betook  them  to  their  sleepless  beds, 

With  hearts  and  prospects  broken,  but  no  heads. 

CLXII. 

The  desolate  relief  of  free  complaining 

Came  with  the  morn,  and  with  it  came  bad  weather ; 
The  wind  was  east-northeast,  and  it  was  raining 

Throughout  that  day,  which,  ta*ke  it  altogether, 

Was  one  whose  memory  clings  to  us  through  life, 

• 
Just  like  a  suit  in  Chancery,  or  a  wife. 

CLXIII. 

That  evening,  with  a  most  important  face 
And  dreadful  knock,  and  tidings  still  more  dreadful, 

A  notary  came — sad  things  had  taken  place  ; 
My  hero  had  forgot  to  "do  the  needful ;  " 

A  note  (amount  not  stated),  with  his  name  on't, 

Was  left  unpaid — in  short,  he  had  "stopped  payment." 

CLXIV. 

I  hate  your  tragedies,  both  long  and  short  ones 
(Except  Tom  Thumb,  and  Juan's  Pantomime) ; 


152  FANNY. 

And  stories  woven  of  sorrows  and  misfortunes 

Are  bad  enough  in  prose,  and  worse  in  rhyme 
Mine,  therefore,  must  be  brief.     Under  protest 
His  notes  remain — the  wise  can  guess  the  rest. 

CLXV. 


CLXVI. 

I 

For  two  whole  days  they  were  the  common  talk ; 

The  party,  and  the  failure,  and  all  that, 
The  theme  of  loungers  in  their  morning  walk, 

Porter-house  reasoning,  and  tea-table  chat. 
The  third,  some  newer  wonder  came  to  blot  them, 
And  on  the  fourth,  the  "  meddling  world  "  forgot  them, 


CLXVII. 

Anxious,  however,  something  to  discover, 

I  passed  their  house — the  shutters  were  all  closed  ; 

The  song  of  knocker  and  of  bell  was  over ; 
Upon  the  steps  two  chimney-sweeps  reposed  ; 

And  on  the  door  my  dazzled  eyebeam  met 

These  cabalistic  words — "  This  house  to  let." 


FANNY  !5 

CLXVIII. 

They  live  now,  like  chameleons,  upon  air 
And  hope,  and  such  cold,  unsubstantial  dishes  ; 

That  they  removed,  is  clear,  but  when  or  where 
None  knew.     The  curious  reader,  if  he  wishes, 

May  ask  them,  but  in  vain.     Where  grandeur  dwells, 

The  marble  dome — the  popular  rumor  tells ; 

CLXIX. 

But  of  the  dwelling  of  the  proud  and  poor, 
From  their  own  lips  the  world  will  never  know 

When  better  days  are  gone — it  is  secure 
Beyond  all  other  mysteries  here  below, 

Except,  perhaps,  a  maiden  lady's  age, 

When  past  the  noonday  of  life's  pilgrimage. 

eLxx. 

Fanny  !  'twas  with  her  name  my  song  began  ; 

'Tis  proper  and  polite  her  name  should  end  it ; 
If,  in  my  story  of  her  woes,  or  plan 

Or  moral  can  be  traced,  'twas  not  intended  ; 
And  if  I've  wronged  her,  I  can  only  tell  her 
I'm  sorry  for  it — so  is  my  bookseller. 

CLXXI. 

I  met  her  yesterday  —her  eyes  were  wet — 

She  faintly  smiled,  and  said  she  had  been  reading 


154  FANNY. 

The  Treasurer's  Report  in  the  Gazette, 

Mclntyre's  speech,  and  Campbell's  "  Love  lies  bleed- 
ing; " 

She  had  a  shawl  on,  'twas  not  a  Cashmere  one, 
And,  if  it  cost  five  dollars,  'twas  a  dear  one. 

CLXXII. 

Her  father  sent  to  Albany  a  prayer 
For  office,  told  how  Fortune  had  abused  him, 

And  modestly  requested  to  be  Mayor — 
The  Council  very  civilly  refused  him ; 

Because,  however  much  they  might  desire  it, 

The  "  public  good,"  it  seems,  did  not  require  it. 

CLXXIII. 

Some  evenings  since,  he  took  a  lonely  stroll 
Along  Broadway,  scene  of  past  joys  and  evils ; 

He  felt  that  withering  bitterness  of  soul, 
Quaintly  denominated  the  "  blue  devils ;  " 

And  thought  of  Bonaparte  and  Belisarius, 

Pompey,  and  Colonel  Burr,  and  Caius  Marius, 

« 

CLXXIV. 

And  envying  the  loud  playfulness  and  mirth 

Of  those  who  passed  him,  gay  in  youth  and  hope, 

He  took  at  Jupiter  a  shilling's  worth 

Of  gazing,  through  the  showman's  telescope ; 


FANNY. 

Sounds  as  of  far-off  bells  came  on  his  ears- 
He  fancied  'twas  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

CLXXV. 

He  was  mistaken,  it  was  no  such  thing, 
'Twas  Yankee  Doodle  played  by  Scudder's  band 

He  muttered,  as  he  lingered  listening, 

Something  of  freedom  and  our  happy  land ; 

Then  sketched,  as  to  his  home  he  hurried  fast, 

This  sentimental  song — his  saddest,  and  his  last : 


SONG. 


Young  thoughts  have  music  in  them,  love 

And  happiness  their  theme ; 
And  music  wanders  in  the  wind 

That  lulls  a  morning  dream. 
And  there  are  angel-voices  heard, 

In  childhood's  frolic  hours, 
When  life  is  but  an  April  day 

Of  sunshine  and  of  showers. 


There's  music  in  the  forest-leaves 
When  summer  winds  are  there? 

And  in  the  laugh  of  forest  girls 
That  braid  their  sunny  hair. 


156  FANNY. 

The  first  wild-bird  that  drinks  the  dew, 

From  violets  of  the  spring, 
Has  music  in  his  song,  and  in 

The  fluttering  of  his  wing. 

3- 

There's  music  in  the  dash  of  waves 

When  the  swift  bark  cleaves  their  foam  ; 
There's  music  heard  upon  her  deck, 

The  mariner's  song  of  home, 
When  moon  and  star  beams  smiling  meet 

At  midnight  on  the  sea — 
And  there  is  music — once  a  week — 

In  Scudder's  balcony. 

4- 

But  the  music  of  young  thoughts  too  soon 

Is  faint,  and  dies  away, 
And  from  our  morning  dreams  we  wake 

To  curse  the  coming  day. 
And  childhood's  frolic  hours  are  brief, 

And  oft  in  after-years 
Their  memory  comes  to  chill  the  heart, 

And  dim  the  eye  with  tears. 

5- 

To-day  the  forest-leaves  are  green, 
They'll  wither  on  the  morrow, 


FANNY. 

And  the  maiden's  laugh  be  changed  ere  long 

To  the  widow's  wail  of  sorrow. 
Come  with  the  winter  snows,  and  ask, 

Where  are  the  forest  birds  ? 
The  answer  is  a  silent  one, 

More  eloquent  than  words. 

6. 

The  moonlight  music  of  the  waves 

In  storms  is  heard  no  more, 
When  the  living  lightning  mocks  the  wreck 

At  midnight  on  the  shore ; 
And  the  mariner's  song  of  home  has  ceased, 

His  corse  is  on  the  sea — 
And  music  ceases  when  it  rains 

In  Scudder's  balcony. 


THE     RE  CORD ER 


THE  RECORDER.1 


A    PETITION. 


BY     THOMAS     CASTALY. 
December  zo,  l8z8. 

"On  they  move 

In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  RECORDERS." 

MILTON. 

"  Live  in  Settle's  numbers  one  day  more !  " 

POPE. 

|Y  dear  RECORDER,  you  and  I 

Have  floated  down  life's  stream  together, 
And  kept  unharmed  our  friendship's  tie 
•Through  every  change  of  Fortune's  sky, 

Her  pleasant  and  her  rainy  weather. 
Full  sixty  times  since  first  we  met, 
Our  birthday  suns  have  risen  and  set, 
And  time  has  worn  the  baldness  now 
Of  Julius  Caesar  on  your  brow  ; 
Your  brow,  like  his,  a  field  of  thought, 
With  broad  deep  furrows  spirit-wrought, 


1 62  THE  RECORDER. 

Whose  laurel-harvests  long  have  shown 
As  green  and  glorious  as  his  own ; 
And  proudly  would  the  C^SAR  claim 
Companionship  with  RIKER'S  name, 
His  peer  in  forehead  and  in  fame. 

Both  eloquent  and  learned  and  brave, 

Born  to  command  and  skilled  to  rule, 
One  made  the  citizen  a  slave, 

The  other  makes  him  more — a  fool. 
The  Caesar  an  imperial  crown, 

His  slaves'  mad  gift,  refused  to  wear  ; 
The  Riker  put  his  fool's-cap  on, 

And  found  it  fitted  to  a  hair ; 
The  Caesar,  though  by  birth  and  breeding, 
Travel,  the  ladies,  and  light  reading, 
A  gentleman  in  mien  and  mind, 

And  fond  of  Romans  and  their'mothers, 
Was  heartless  as  the  Arab's  wind, 
And  slew  some  millions  of  mankind, 

Including  enemies  and  others. 
The  Riker,  like  Bob  Acres,  stood 
Edgewise  upon  a  field  of  blood, 

The  where  and  wherefore  Swartwout  knows, 
Pulled  trigger,  as  a  brave  man  should, 

And  shot — God  bless  them — his  own  toes  ! 
The  Caesar  passed  the  Rubicon 
With  helm,  and  shield,  and  breastplate  on, 

Dashing  his  war-horse  through  the  waters ; 


THE  RECORDER. 

The  Riker  would  have  built  a  barge 
Or  steamboat  at  the  city's  charge, 

And  passed  it  with  his  wife  and  daughters. 

But  let  that  pass.     As  I  have  said, 
There's  naught,  save  laurels,  on  your  head, 
And  time  has  changed  my  clustering  hair, 
And  showered  the  snow-flakes  thickly  there; 
And  though  our  lives  have  ever  been 
As  different  as  their  different  scene ; 
Mine  more  renowned  for  rhymes  than  riches, 
Yours  less  for  scholarship  than  speeches ; 
Mine  passed  in  low-roofed  leafy  bower, 
Yours  in  high  halls  of  pomp  and  power, 
Yet  are  we,  be  the  moral  told, 
Alike  in  one  thing — growing  old, 
Ripened  like  summer's  cradled  sheaf, 
Faded  like  autumn's  falling  leaf — 
And  nearing,  sail  and  signal  spread, 
The  quiet  anchorage  of  the  dead. 
For  such  is  human  life,  wherever 
The  voyage  of  its  bark  may  be, 
On  home's  green-banked  and  gentle  rivei, 
Or  the  world's  shoreless,  sleepless  sea. 

Yes,  you  have  floated  down  the  tide 
Of  time,  a  swan  in  grace  and  pride 
And  majesty  and  beauty,  till 

The  law,  the  Ariel  of  your  will, 
8 


X64  THE  RECORDER. 

Power's  best  beloved,  the  law  of  libel 
(A  bright  link  in  the  legal  chain) 
Expounded,  settled,  and  made  plain, 
By  your  own  charge,  the  juror's  Bible, 
Has  clipped  the  venomed  tongue  of  slander, 
That  dared  to  call  you  "Party's  gander, 
The  leader  of  the  geese  who  make 

Our  city's  parks  and  ponds  their  home, 
And  keep  her  liberties  awake 

By  cackling,  as  their  sires  saved  Rome. 
Gander  of  Party's  pond,  wherein 
Lizard,  and  toad,  and  terrapin, 
Your  ale-house  patriots,  are  seen, 

In  Faction's  feverish  sunshine  basking  :  " 
And  now,  to  rend  this  veil  of  lies, 
Word-woven  by  your  enemies, 
And  keep  your  sainted  memory  free 
From  tarnish  with  posterity, 

I  take  the  liberty  of  asking 
Permission,  sir,  to  write  your  life, 
With  all  its  scenes  of  calm  and  strife, 

And  all  its  turnings  and  its  windings, 
A  poem,  in  a  quarto  volume — 
Verse,  like  the  subject,  blank  and  solemn, 

With  elegant  appropriate  bindings, 
Of  rat  and  mole  skin  the  one  half, 
The  other  a  part  fox,  part  calf. 
Your  portrait,  graven  line  for  line, 
From  that  immortal  bust  in  plaster, 


THE  RECORDER. 

The  master-piece  of  Art's  great  master, 

Mr.  Praxiteles  Browere,3 
Whose  trowel  is  a  thing  divine, 
Shall  smile  and  bow,  and  promise  there, 
And  twenty-nine  fine  forms  and  faces 

(The  Corporation  and  the  Mayor), 
Linked  hand  in  hand,  like  Loves  and  Graces, 

Shall  hover  o'er  it,  grouped  in  air, 
With  wild  pictorial  dance  and  song ; 
The  song  of  happy  bees  in  bowers, 
The  dance  of  Guide's  graceful  Hours, 
All  scattering  Flushing's  garden  flowers8 

Round  the  dear  head  they've  loved  so  long. 

I  know  that  you  are  modest,  know 

That  when  you  hear  your  merit's  praise, 
Your  cheeks'  quick  blushes  come  and  go, 
Lily  and  rose-leaf,  sun  and  snow, 

Like  maidens'  on  their  bridal  days. 
I  know  that  you  would  fain  decline 
To  aid  me  and  the  sacred  Nine, 
In  giving  to  the  asking  earth 
The  story  of  your  wit  and  worth ; 
For  if  there  be  a  fault  to  cloud 

The  brightness  of  your  clear  good  sense, 
It  is,  and  be  the  fact  allowed, 

Your  only  failing— DIFFIDENCE  ! 

An  amiable  weakness — given 
To  justify  the  sad  reflection, 


£66  THE  RECORDER. 

That  in  this  vale  of  tears  not  even 

A  Riker  is  complete  perfection, 
A  most  romantic  detestation 
Of  power  and  place,  of  pay  and  ration  ; 
A  strange  unwillingness  to  carry 

The  weight  of  honor  on  your  shoulders, 
For  which  you  have  been  named,  the  very 

Sensitive-plant  of  office-holders, 
A  shrinking  bashfulness,  whose  grace 

Gives  beauty  to  your  manly  face. 
Thus  shades  the  green  and  glowing  vine 
The  rough  bark  of  the  mountain-pine, 
Thus  round  her  freedom's  waking  steel 

Harmodius  wreathed  his  country's  myrtle 
And  thus  the  golden  lemon's  peel 

Gives  fragrance  to  a  bowl  of  turtle. 

True,  "  many  a  flower,"  the  poet  sings, 

"  Is  born  to  blush  unseen  ;  " 
But  you,  although  you  blush,  are  not 

The  flower  the  poets  mean. 
In  vain  you  wooed  a  lowlier  lot ; 

In  vain  you  clipped  your  eagle-wings — 
Talents  like  yours  are  not  forgot 

And  buried  with  earth's  common  things. 
No  !  my  dear  Riker,  I  would  give 
My  laurels,  living  and  to  live, 
Or  as  much  cash  as  you  could  raise  on 
Their  value,  by  hypothecation, 


THE  RECORDER. 

To  be,  for  one  enchanted  hour, 
In  beauty,  majesty,  and  power, 
What  you  for  forty  years  have  been, 
The  Oberon  of  life's  fairy  scene. 

An  anxious  city  sought  and  found  you 

In  a  blessed  day  of  joy  and  pride, 
Sceptred  your  jewelled  hand,  and  crowned 

Her  chief,  her  guardian,  and  her  guide. 
Honors  which  weaker  minds  had  wrought 

In  vain  for  years,  and  knelt  and  prayed  for, 
Are  all  your  own,  unpriced,  unbought, 

Or  (which  is  the  same  thing)  unpaid  for. 
Painfully  great !  against  your  will 

Her  hundred  offices  to  hold, 
Each  chair  with  dignity  to  fill, 

And  your  own  pockets  with  her  gold  : 
A  sort  of  double  duty,  making 
Your  task  a  serious  undertaking. 
With  what  delight  the  eyes  of  all 
Gaze  on  you,  seated  in  your  Hall, 

Like  Sancho  in  his  island,  reigning, 
Loved  leader  of  its  motley  hosts 
Of  lawyers  and  their  bills  of  costs, 

And  all  things  thereto  appertaining, 
Such  as  crimes,  constables,  and  juries, 
Male  pilferers  and  female  furies, 
The  police  and  the  polissons, 
Illegal  right  and  legal  wrong, 


1 68  THE  RECORDER. 

Bribes,  perjuries,  law-craft,  and  cunning, 
Judicial  drollery  and  punning ; 
And  all  the  et  ceteras  that  grace 
That  genteel,  gentlemanly  place  ! 
Or  in  the  Council  Chamber  standing 

With  eloquence  of  eye  and  brow, 
Your  voice  the  music  of  commanding, 

And  fascination  in  your  bow, 
Arranging  for  the  civic  shows 

Your  "  men  in  buckram,"  as  per  list, 
Your  John  Does  and  your  Richard  Roes, 

Those  Dummies  of  your  games  of  whist. 
The  Council  Chamber — where  authority 
Consists  in  two  words — a  majority. 
For  whose  contractors'  jobs  we  pay 

Our  last  dear  sixpences  for  taxes, 
As  freely  as  in  Sylla's  day 

Rome  bled  beneath  his  lictors'  axes. 
Where — on  each  magisterial  nose 

In  colors  of  the  rainbow  linger, 
Like  sunset  hues  on  Alpine  snows, 

The  printmarks  of  your  thumb  and  finger. 
Where  he,  the  wisest  of  wild-fowl, 
Bird  of  Jove's  blue-eyed  maid — the  owl, 

That  feathered  alderman,  is  heard 
Nightly,  by  poet's  ear  alone, 
To  other  eyes  and  ears  unknown, 

Cheering  your  every  look  and  word, 
And  making,  room  and  gallery  through, 


THE  RECORDER. 

The  loud  applauding  echoes  peal, 
Of  his  "  OK  pent  on  etre  mieiix 
Qtfau  sien  de  safamille?  "4 

Oh,  for  a  herald's  skill  to  rank 

Your  titles  in  their  due  degrees  ! 
At  Sing  Sing — at  the  Tradesman's  Bank, 

In  Courts,  Committees,  Caucuses  : 
At  Albany,  where  those  who  knew 

The  last  year's  secrets  of  the  great, 
Call  you  the  golden  handle  to 

The  earthen  Pitcher  of  the  State.  * 
(Poor  Pitcher  !  that  Van  Buren  ceases 

To  want  its  service  gives  me  pain, 
'Twill  break  into  as  many  pieces 

As  Kitty's  of  Coleraine.) 
At  Bellevue,  on  her  banquet-night, 

Where  Burgundy  and  business6  meet, 
On  others,  at  the  heart's  delight, 

The  Pewter  Mug7  in  Frankfort  Street ; 
From  Harlem  bridge  to  Whitehall  dock, 

From  Bloomingdale  to  BlackwelPs  Isles, 
Forming,  including  road  and  rock, 

A  city  of  some  twelve  square  miles, 
O'er  street  and  alley,  square  and  block, 

Towers,  temples,  telegraphs,  and  tiles, 
O'er  wharves  whose  stone  and  timbers  mock 
The  ocean's  and  its  navies'  shock, 
O'er  all  the  fleets  that  float  before  her, 


170  THE  RECORDER. 

O'er  all  their  banners  waving  o'er  her, 
Her  sky  and  waters,  earth  and  air — 
You  are  lord,  for  who  is  her  lord  mayor  ? 
Where  is  he  ?     Echo  answers,  where  ? 
And  voices,  like  the  sound  of  seas, 
Breathe  in  sad  chorus,  on  the  breeze, 
The  Highland  mourner's  melody — 
Oh  HONE  8  a  rie  !     Oh  HONE  a  rie  ! 
The  hymn  o'er  happy  days  departed, 

The  Hope  that  such  again  may  be, 
When  power  was  large  and  liberal-hearted, 

And  wealth  was  hospitality. 

One  more  request,  and  I  am  lost, 

If  you  its  earnest  prayer  deny  ; 
It  is,  that  you  preserve  the  most 

Inviolable  secrecy 

As  to  my  plan.     Our  fourteen  wards 
Contain  some  thirty-seven  bards 
Who,  if  my  glorious  theme  were  known, 
Would  make  it,  thought  and  word,  their  own, 
My  hopes  and  happiness  destroy, 
And  trample  with  a  rival's  joy 

Upon  the  grave  of  my  renown. 
My  younger  brothers  in  the  art, 
Whose  study  is  the  human  heart — 
Minstrels,  before  whose  spells  have  bowed 
The  learned,  the  lovely,  and  the  proud, 

Ere  their  life's  morning  hours  are  gone— 


THE  RECORDER. 

Light  hearts  be  theirs,  the  Muse's  boon, 
And  may  their  suns  blaze  bright  at  noon, 
And  set  without  a  cloud  ! 

HiLLHOUSE,9  whose  music,  like  his  themes, 

Lifts  earth  to  heaven — whose  poet-dreams 

Are  pure  and  holy  as  the  hymn 

Echoed  from  harps  of  seraphim, 

By  bards  that  drank  at  Zion's  fountains 

When  glory,  peace,  and  hope,  were  hers, 
And  beautiful  upon  her  mountains 

The  feet  of  angel  messengers. 
BRYANT,  whose  songs  are  thoughts  that  bless 

The  heart,  its  teachers,  and  its  joy, 
As  mothers  blend  with  their  caress 
Lessons  of  truth  and  gentleness 

And  virtue  for  the  listening  boy 
Spring's  lovelier  flowers  for  many  a  day 
Have  blossomed  on  his  wandering  way. 
Beings  of  beauty  and  decay, 

They  slumber  in  their  autumn  tomb ; 
But  those  that  graced  his  own  Green  River, 

And  wreathed  the  lattice  of  his  home, 
Charmed  by  his  song  from  mortal  doom, 

Bloom  on,  and  will  bloom  on  forever. 
And  HALLECK — who  has  made  thy  roof, 
St.  Tammany  !  oblivion-proof — 
Thy  beer  illustrious,  and  thee 
A  belted  knight  of  chivalry  ! 


172  THE  RECORDER. 

And  changed  thy  dome  of  painted  bricks 
And  porter-casks  and  politics, 

Into  a  green  Arcadian  vale, 
With  Stephen  Allen10  for  its  lark, 
Ben  Bailey's  voice  its  watch-dog's  bark, 

And  John  Targee  its  nightingale. 

These,  and  the  other  THIRTY-FOUR, 
Will  live  a  thousand  years  or  more — 
If  the  world  lasts  so  long.     For  me, 
I  rhyme  not  for  posterity, 
Though  pleasant  to  my  heirs  might  be 

The  incense  of  its  praise, 
When  I,  their  ancestor,  have  gone, 
And  paid  the  debt,  the  only  one 

A  poet  ever  pays. 

But  many  are  my  years,  and  few     . 
Are  left  me  ere  night's  holy  dew, 
And  sorrow's  holier  tears,  will  keep 
The  grass  green  where  in  death  I  sleep. 

And  when  that  grass  is  green  above  me, 
And  those  who  bless  me  now  and  love  me 

Are  sleeping  by  my  side, 
Will  it  avail  me  aught  that  men 
Tell  to  the  world  with  lip  and  pen 

That  once  I  lived  and  died? 
No :  if  a  garland  for  my  brow 
Is  growing,  let  me  have  it  now, 


THE  RECORDER. 

While  I'm  alive  to  wear  it ; 
And  if,  in  whispering  my  name, 
There's  music  in  the  voice  of  fame 

Like  Garcia's,11  let  me  hear  it ! 

The  Christmas  holidays  are  nigh, 
Therefore  till  New- Year's  Eve,  good-by, 

Then  "  revenons  b  nos  moutons," 
Yourself  and  aldermen — meanwhile, 
Look  o'er  this  letter  with  a  smile  ; 
And  keep  the  secret  of  its  song 
As  faithfully,  but  not  as  long, 
As  you  have  guarded  from  the  eyes 
Of  editorial  Paul  Prys, 

And  other  meddling,  murmuring  claimants, 
Those  Eleusinian  mysteries, 

The  city's  cash  receipts  and  payments. 

Yours  ever, 

T.  C. 


rOUNG    AMERICA. 


YOUNG   AMERICA. 


IT  is  a  BOY  whom  fourteen  years  have  seen, 

Smiling,  with  them,  on  spring's  returning  green, 
A  bonny  boy,  with  eye-delighting  eyes, 
Sparkling  as  stars,  and  blue  as  summer's  skies, 
With  face,  like  April's,  bright  in  smiles  or  tears, 
His  laugh  a  song — his  step  the  forest  deer's, 
With  heart  as  pure  and  liberal  as  the  air, 
And  voice  of  sweetest  tone,  and  bright  gold  hair 
In  thick  curls  clustering  round  his  even  brow, 
And  dimpled  cheek — how  calm  he  slumbers  now  ! 


The  sentry  stars  in  heaven's  blue  above, 

Sleep  their  sweet  daybreak  sleep,  their  watch  withdrawn, 

And  lovely  as  a  bride  from  dream  of  love, 

Blushing  and  blooming,  wakes  the  summer  dawn ; 

Winds— woods — and  waters  of  the  brook  and  bay 

Wake  at  the  fanning  of  the  wings  of  day, 


£78  YOUNG  AMERICA. 

And  birds  and  bells,  in  garden,  tree,  and  tower, 
Bow  to  the  bidding  of  the  wakening  hour, 
And  breathe,  the  Hamlet's  happy  homes  among 
Morn's  fragrant  music  from  their  lips  of  Song. 


Within  the  loveliest  of  wayside  bowers, 

The  summer  home  of  loveliest  leaves  and  flowers, 

Cradled  on  rose-leaves,  curtained  round  with  vines, 

And  canopied  by  branches  of  a  tree 

Whose  buds  and  blossoms  charm  the  wandering  bee, 

In  deep  and  dreaming  sleep  the  youth  reclines. 

Sunbeams,  wind-cooled,  their  fond  caressing  glow, 

Twine,  with  leaf-shadows,  the  green  roof  below, 

In  wedded  love-clasp  of  sweet  shade  and  light, 

The  unwoven  harmony  of  the  dark  and  bright, 

And  blend  within,  around  it,  and  above, 

Their  balm,  their  bloom,  their  beauty,  and  their  joy, 

Their  watching — sleepless  as  the  brooding  dove, 

Their  bounty — boundless  as  the  fairy  love 

Of  Queen  Titania  for  her  Henchman  Boy. 


II. 


The  doors  are  open  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
The  morning  worshippers  are  kneeling  there 
In  supplicating  harmony,  beneath 
The  intoning  organ's  incense-bearing  breath, 


YOUNG  AMERICA.  I79 

That  aids  their  hymning  voices,  and  around 

Moves  in  the  might  and  majesty  of  sound. 

The  pages  of  the  Holy  Book  are  read, 

The  solemn  blessing  of  the  Priest  is  said, 

Departing  footsteps  gently  press  the  floor, 

And  silence  seals  and  guards  the  consecrated  door. 

Along  his  homeward  pathway,  lingering  slow, 

His  dark  weeds  tokening  a  mourner's  woe, 

The  Gospel-Teacher  comes.     The  path  inclines 

His  steps  beside  the  cradle-bower  of  vines 

Where  sleeps  the  boy.     A  moment's  mute  surprise, 

And  the  mazed  mourner  greets,  with  grateful  eyes, 

The  enlivening  presence  of  that  cherub  face, 

Delighted  in  its  loveliness  to  trace 

The  memorial  beauty  of  his  own  lost  boy, 

A  blossomed  bud,  death-doomed,  in  its  spring-time  of 

j°y; 

And  says,  in  whispers,  "  Would  that  I  might  wake, 
And  woo,  and  win  him,  for  his  soul's  sweet  sake, 
To  make  my  home  his  cloister,  and  entwine 
All  his  life's  hopes  and  happiness  with  mine. 
And  with  him  win,  dear  daughter  of  the  sky  1 
Handmaid  of  Heaven  !  immortal  Piety  ! 
Thy  visitings,  and  joy  to  see  thee  bring 
In  sisterly  embrace,  wing  folding  wing, 
Meek  Faith,  sweet  Hope,  and  Charity  divine, 
With  thee  to 'consecrate  that  home  a  shrine 
Among  the  holiest  where  the  adorer  kneels, 
Listening  the  coming  of  thy  chariot-wheels. 


l8o  YOUNG  AMERICA. 

Then  the  gay  sportive  dreams,  enwreathing  now 

Their  frolic  fancies  round  the  slumberer's  brow, 

Should  yield  to  dreams  of  angels  entering  in 

His  young  heart's  Eden,  unprofaned  by  sin  ; 

Then  should  his  pleasant  couch  of  leaves  and  flowers 

Yield  willing  homage  to  the  bliss  of  bowers 

More  beautiful  than  hers,  and  only  given 

In  visions  of  the  scenery  of  heaven  ; 

Then  should  the  music  now  around  him  heard, 

The  wind-harp's  song,  the  song  of  bee  and  bird, 

Yield  to  thy  chorused  carollings  sublime, 

And  sky-endomed  cathedral's  chant  and  chime. 


And  then  the  longing  of  his  life  should  be 

To  praise,  to  love,  to  worship  thine  and  thee, 

And  when,  my  pastoral  task  of  duty  done, 

I  rest  beneath  the  cold  sepulchral  stone, 

Be  his  the  delegated  power  to  grace, 

In  surpliced  sanctity,  thy  Altar-place ; 

To  feed  thy  chosen  flock  with  heavenly  food, 

Be  their  kind  Shepherd,  gentle,  generous,  good, 

And,  in  the  language  of  the  Minstrel's  lay, 

"  Lure  them  to  brighter  worlds,  and  lead  the  way." 


Hark  !  a  bugle's  echo  comes, 
Hark  !  a  fife  is  singing, 

Hark  !  the  roll  of  far-off  drums 
Through  the  air  is  ringing  ! 


YOUNG  AMERICA. 

The  mourner  turns — looks — listens,  and  is  gone, 
In  quiet  heedlessness  the  Boy  sleeps  on. 


in. 

Nearer  the  bugle's  echo  comes, 

Nearer  the  fife  is  singing, 
Near  and  more  near  the  roll  of  drums 

Through  the  air  is  ringing. 

War  !  it  is  thy  music  proud, 
Wakening  the  brave-hearted, 

Memories — hopes — a  glorious  crowd, 
At  its  call  have  started. 

Memories  of  our  sires  of  old, 

Who,  oppression-driven, 
High  their  rainbow  flag  unrolled 

To  the  sun  and  sky  of  heaven. 

Memories  of  the  true  and  brave, 

Who,  at  Honor's  bidding, 
Stepped,  their  Country's  life  to  save, 

To  war  as  to  their  wedding. 

Memories  of  many  a  battle-plain, 
Where,  their  life-blood  flowing, 

Made  green  the  grass,  and  gold  the  grain, 
Above  their  grave-mounds  growing. 


YOUNG  AMERICA. 

Hopes — that  the  children  of  their  prayers, 

With  them  in  valor  vieing, 
May  do  as  noble  deeds  as  theirs, 

In  living  and  in  dying. 

And  make,  for  children  yet  to  come, 
The  land  of  their  bequeathing 

The  imperial  and  the  peerless  home 
Of  happiest  beings  breathing. 

For  this  the  warrior-path  we  tread, 

The  battle-path  of  duty, 
And  change,  for  field  and  forest-bed, 

Our  bowers  of  love  and  beauty. 

Music  !  bid  thy  minstrels  play 

No  tunes  of  grief  or  sorrow, 
Let  them  cheer  the  living  brave  to-day, 

They  may  wail  the  dead  to-morrow. 


Such  were  the  words,  unvoiced  by  lip  or  tongue, 

The  thought-enwoven  themes,  the  mental  song 

Of  One,  high  placed,  beside  the  slumberer's  bower, 

In  the  stern,  silent  chieftainship  of  power. 

A  War-king,  seated  on  his  saddle  throne, 

A  listener  to  no  counsels  but  his  own, 

The  soldier  leader  of  a  soldier  band, 

Whose  prescient  skill,  quick  eye,  and  brief  command, 


^YOUNG  AMERICA. 

Have  won  for  him,  on  many  a  field  of  fame, 

The  immortality  of  a  victor's  name. 

His  troops,  in  thousands,  now  are  marching  by, 

Heart-homage  seen  in  each  saluting  eye, 

And  sword,  and  lance,  and  banner,  bowing  down 

In  tributary  grace,  before  his  bright  renown. 

And  on,  and  on,  as  rank  on  rank  appears, 

Come,  fast  and  loud,  the  thrice-repeated  cheers 

From  voices  of  brave  men  whose  life-long  cry 

Has  been  with  him  to  live,  for  him  to  die. 

Their  plumes  and  pennons  dancing  in  the  breeze, 

With  leaves  and  flowers  of  overarching  trees, 

Timing  their  steps  to  tunes  of  flute  and  fife, 

And  trump  and  drum,  the  joy  of  soldier  life, 

While  o'er  them  wave,  proud  banner  of  the  free  ! 

Thy  sky-born  stars  and  glorious  colors  three, 

All  beauteous  in  each  interwoven  hue 

Of  summer's  rainbow,  spanning  earth  and  sea, 

The  rose's  red  and  white,  the  violet's  heavenly  blue, 

Emblems  of  valor,  purity,  and  truth, 

Long  may  they  charm  the  air  in  ever-smiling  youth  ! 

And  now  the  rearmost  files  are  hurrying  by, 

Closing  the  gorgeous  scene  of  pomp  and  pageantry  ; 

And  far,  rar  off,  on  wings  of  distance  borne, 

Speed  the  faint  echoes  of  the  trump  and  horn, 

Plaintively  breathing  partings  and  farewells, 

Solemn  and  sad  as  tones  of  tocsin-bells, 

But  triumphed  o'er  by  voices  that  prolong 

The  wild  war-music  of  the  manlier  song, 


1 84  YOUNG  AMERICA.. 

That  bids  the  soldier's  heart  beat  quick  and  gay, 
The  song  of  "  O'er  the  hills  and  far  away." 

And  now,  beside  the  slumberer's  couch  of  leaves, 

His  parting  web  of  thought  the  warrior  chieftain  weaves. 


How  sweetly  the  Boy  in  the  beauty  is  sleeping 

Of  Life's  sunny  morning  of  hope  and  of  youth  ! 
May  his  guardian  angels,  their  watch  o'er  him  keeping, 

Keep  his  evening  and  noon  in  the  pathways  of  truth  ! 
Ah  me  !  what  delight  it  would  give  me  to  wake  him, 

And  lead  him  wherever  my  life-banners  wave, 
O'er  the  pathways  of  glory  and  honor  to  take  him, 

And  teach  him  the  lore  of  the  bold  and  the  brave ; 

And  when  the  war-clouds  and  their  fierce  storm  of  water, 
O'er  the  land  that  we  love  their  outpourings  shall 
cease, 

Bid  him  bear  to  her  Ark,  from  her  last  field  of  slaughter, 
Upon  Victory's  wings,  the  green  olive  of  Peace  ; 


And  when  the  death-note  of  my  bugle  has  sounded, 
And  memorial  tears  are  embalming  my  name, 

By  young  hearts  like  his  may  the  grave  be  surrounded 
Where  I  sleep  my  last  sleep  in  the  sunbeams  of  fame. 


YOUNG  AMERICA. 


Summoned  to  duty  by  his  charger's  neighs, 
The  only  summons  that  his  pride  obeys, 
He  bows  his  farewell  blessing,  and  is  gone  — 
In  quiet  heedlessness  the  Boy  sleeps  on. 


Merrily  bounds  the  morning  bark 

Along  the  summer  sea, 
Merrily  mounts  the  morning  lark 

The  topmost  twig  on  tree, 
Merrily  smiles  the  morning  rose 

The  morning  sun  to  see, 
And  merrily,  merrily  greets  the  rose 

The  honey-seeking  bee. 
But  merrier,  merrier  far  are  these, 
Who  bring,  on  the  wings  of  the  morning  breeze, 

A  music  sweeter  than  her  own, 
A  happy  group  of  loves  and  graces, 
Graceful  forms  and  lovely  faces, 

All  in  gay  delight  outflown  ; 
Outflown  from  their  school-room  cages, 
School-room  rules,  and  school-room  pages, 
Lovely  in  their  teens  and  tresses,  • 
Summer  smiles,  and  summer  dresses, 
Joyous  in  their  dance  and  song, 


1 86  YOUNG  AMERICA 

With  sweet  sisterly  caresses, 

Arm  in  arm  they  speed  along 
("Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 

Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet, 
To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating, 

Glance  their  many  twinkling  feet. 
Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen's  approach  declare. 

Where'er  she  turns  the  Graces  homage  pay, 
With  arms  sublime,  that  float  upon  the  air) ;  " 

She  comes — the  gentle  Lady  of  my  Lay, 
Well  pleased  that,  for  her  welcome  to  prepare, 
I  borrow  music  from  the  Muse  of  Gray. 

His  heroine  was  the  lovely  Paphian  Queen, 
Mine  seems  the  Huntress  of  the  Sylvan  scene, 
The  chaste  Diana,  with  her  Nymphs,  in  gay 
And  graceful  beauty  keeping  holiday. 
Sudden  she  pauses  in  the  race  of  joy, 
Around  the  Cradle  Bower  where  sleeps  the  Boy, 
And,  with  a  sunny  smile  of  gladness,  sees 
His  golden  ringlets,  on  the  dancing  breeze, 
Shading  his  eyelids— and,  with  quick  delight, 
Bids  her  wild  Nymphs  to  wing  their  merry  flight 
Home  to  their  morning  nests,  and  leave  her  care 
To  watch  the  slumberer  in  his  rose-leafed  chair. 
He,  in  his  beauty,  to  her  fancy  seems 
To  be  the  young  Endymion  of  her  dreams 
Of  yester-evening,  when,  alone  and  still, 
Waiting  the  coming  of  the  whip-poor-will, 


YOUNG  AMERICA, 


Our  climate's  nightingale,  her  garden  bird, 
From  lips  unseen,   unknown,  this  whispered  song 
she  heard  : 


"  The  summer  winds  are  wandering  here 

In  mountain  freshness,  pure  and  free, 
And  all  that  to  the  eye  are  dear 

In  rock  and  torrent,  flower  and  tree, 
Upon  the  gazing  stranger  come, 

Till,  in  his  starlight  dreams  at  even, 
It  seems  another  Eden-home, 

Reared  by  the  word— the  breath  of  Heaven. 

"  To-morrow — and  the  stranger's  gone, 

And  other  scenes,  as  bright  as  this, 
May  win  it  from  his  bosom  soon, 

And  dim  its  wild-wood  loveliness. 
But  ever  round  this  spot  his  thought 

Will  be — while  Memory's  leaves  are  green  ; 
The  fairy  scene  may  be  forgot, 

But  not  the  Fairy  of  the  scene. 

"  The  song  she  sang,  the  lip  that  breathed  it, 

The  cheek  of  rose,  the  speaking  eye, 
The  brow  of  snow,  the  hair  that  wreathed  it, 

In  their  young  life  and  purity, 
Will  dwell  within  his  heart  among 
His  holiest,  longest  cherished  things, 
9 


1 88  YOUNG  AMERICA. 

Themes  worthy  of  a  worthier  song, 
Dear  Lady  of  the  mountain  springs.' 


And  who  is  she — the  Fairy  of  the  scene  ? 
A  bright-eyed,  beautiful  maiden  of  eighteen, 
Lovely  and  learned,  and  well  "  skilled  to  rule," 
The  Lady-Mentor  of  a  village  school, 
ft  Teaching  young  Girls'  ideas  how  to  shoot ; 
A  tree  of  knowledge,  rich  in  flowers  and  fruit, 
A  model  heroine  in  mien  and  mind, 
An  "Admirable  Crichton"  crinolined, 
And  author  of  a  charming  Book  that  sings 
Delightfully  concerning  wedding-rings, 
Tracing  the  progress  of  the  lightning-dart 
Between  the  bridal  finger  and  the  heart, 
And  proving  the  arithmetic  untrue 
Which  teaches  us  that  one  and  one  make  two, 
Whereas  the  marriage-ring  is  worn  to  prove 
That  two  are  one — the  Algebra  of  Love. 

Such  is  the  Lady  of  my  song,  and  now 
She  gazes  on  her  young  Endymion's  brow, 
And,  fancying — by  a  sudden  thought  beguiled, 
Herself  a  mother  bending  o'er  her  child, 
Unconsciously  imprints  upon  his  eyes 
A  kiss — brimful  of  all  the  charities, 
Sacredly  secret,  eloquently  mute, 
Yet  "  Musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute," 


YOUNG  AMERICA.  189 

Of  power  to  lure  a  swan  from  off  the  lake, 
Or  wooing  bluebird  from  an  April  tree, 

Upsprings  the  Boy,  exclaiming,  "  I'm  awake  1  " 
And  shakes  his  golden  locks  in  frolic  glee. 

One  look — and,  like  an  arrow  from  the  string, 
Away  the  maiden  went,  on  laughing  wing, 
Graciously  leaving,  ere  she  homeward  flew, 
On  the  green  turf  impearled  with  drops  of  dew, 
Farewell  impressions  of  the  prettiest  foot 
That  ever  graced  and  charmed  a  Gaiter  Boot. 


v. 


The  awakened  Boy,  not  fond  of  early  rising, 
Resumed  his  pillow,  thus  soliloquizing  : 

"  That  Lady's  pleasant  smile  and  ruby  lip 
Might  hope  to  win  my  heart's  companionship, 
But  for  the  memory  of  that  morn  which  proved 
That  he  is  happiest  who  has  never  loved. 
That  morn,  when  I,  within  a  Lady's  bower, 
Offered  my  heart,  hand,  and  a  handsome  dower 
To  ONE  who,  to  my  great  and  sad  surprise, 
Told  me,  with  mischief  in  her  laughing  eyes, 
That  she  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  marry, 
And  added,  in  a  most  provoking  tone, 


tgo  YOUNG  AMERICA. 

That  YOUNG  AMERICA  had  better  '  tarry 
At  Jericho  until  his  beard  was  grown,' 
And  like  his  eagle  wear  upon  his  wings 
Feathers,  before  he  proffered  wedding-rings ; 
That  purpling  grapes  looked  lovely  on  their  vines, 
But  she  preferred  them  perfected  in  wines ; 
That  on  my  cheek  the  down  was  fair  to  see, 
But  she  admired  the  full-blown  favoris, 
And  rather  liked  in  men  a  modest  pride 
Of  mustache — if  artistically  dyed." 

She  then,  dismissing  me  in  queenly  state, 
Locked  of  her  Eden  the  unfeeling  gate, 
And  I — a  victim  to  Love's  cruel  dart, 
Went — to  the  Opera — with  a  broken  heart ! 

Along  thy  peopled  solitude — Broadway  ! 

I  walked,  a  desolate  man,  day  after  day, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  melancholy  brow, 
Until  a  lady's  letter  asked  me  why 

I  passed  her  ladyship  without  a  bow  ; 
To  which  I  sent  the  following  reply, 
My  earliest-born  attempt  at  poetry  : 


"  The  heart  hath  sorrows  of  its  own, 

And  griefs  it  veils  from  all, 
And  tears,  close-hidden  from  the  world, 
In  solitude  will  fall ; 


YOUNG  AMERICA. 

And  when  its  thoughts  of  agony 

Upon  the  bosom  lie, 
Even  Beauty  in  her  loveliness 

May  pass  unheeded  by. 

"Tis  only  on  the  happy 

That  she  never  looks  in  vain, 
To  them  her  smiles  are  rainbow  hopes, 

New-born  of  summer  rain, 
And  their  glad  hearts  will  worship  her, 

As  one  whose  home  is  heaven ; 
A  being  of  a  brighter  world, 

To  earth  a  season  given. 

'That  time  with  me  has  been  and  gone, 

And  life's  best  music  now 
Is  but  the  winter's  wind  that  bends 

The  leafless  forest-bough. 
And  I  would  shun,  if  that  could  be, 

The  light  of  young  blue  eyes — 
They  bring  back  hours  I  would  forget, 

And  painful  memories. 

"Yet,  lady,  though  too  few  and  brief, 
There  are  bright  moments  still ; 

When  I  can  free  my  prisoned  thoughts, 
And  wing  them  where  I  will, 

And  then  thy  smiles  come  o'er  my  heart 
Like  sunbeams  o'er  the  sea, 


I92  YOUNG  AMERICA. 

And  I  can  bow  as  once  I  bowed 
When  all  was  well  with  me." 

And  now  farewell  to  Rhyme  !  and  welcome  Reason  ! 

'Tis  past — my  early  manhood's  pleasant  season ; 

If  morning  dreams,  that  visit  our  closed  eyes, 

Changed,  when  we  wake  to  Life's  realities, 

I  might  become  a  SOLDIER  of  renown, 

Or  wear  a  PREACHER'S  or  a  TEACHER'S  gown ; 

For  all  three  in  my  dreams  since  rose  the  sun, 

Have  sought  to  make  me  their  adopted  one, 

Destined  to  run  the  race  that  each  has  run ; 

But  my  Ambition's  leaves  no  more  are  green, 

In  one  brief  month  my  age  will  be  FIFTEEN. 

I've  seen  the  world,  and  by  the  world  been  seen, 

And  now  am  speeding  fast  upon  the  way 

To  the  calm,  quiet  evening  of  my  day ; 

There  but  remains  one  promise  to  fulfil, 

I  bow  myself  obedient  to  its  will, 

And  am  prepared  to  settle  down  in  life 

By  wooing — winning— wedding  A  RICH  WIFE. 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


| IS  shop  is  a  grocer's — a  snug,  genteel  place, 
Near  the  corner  of  Oak  Street  and  Pearl ; 
He  can  dress,  dance,  and  bow  to  the  ladies  with  grace. 
And  ties  his  cravat  with  a  curl. 

He's  asked  to  all  parties — north,  south,  east,  and  west, 
That  take  place  between  Chatham  and  Cherry ; 

And  when  he's  been  absent,  full  oft  has  the  "  best 
Society  "  ceased  to  be  merry. 

And  nothing  has  darkened  a  sky  so  serene, 

Nor  disordered  his  beauship's  Elysium, 
Till  this  season  among  our  elite  there  has  been 

What  is  called  by  the  clergy  "  a  schism." 

'Tis  all  about  eating  and  drinking — one  set 
Gives  sponge-cake,  a  few  "  kisses  "  or  so, 

And  is  cooled  after  dancing  with  classic  sherbet, 
"  Sublimed"  (see  Lord  Byron)  "  with  snow." 


£96  A   FRAGMENT. 

Another  insists  upon  punch  and  perdrix, 
Lobster-salad,  champagne,  and,  by  way 

Of  a  novelty  only,  those  pearls  of  our  sea, 
Stewed  oysters  from  Lynn-Haven  Bay. 

Miss  Flounce,  the  young  milliner,  blue-eyed  and  bright, 

In  the  front  parlor  over  her  shop, 
"  Entertains,"  as  the  phrase  is,  a  party  to-night, 

Upon  peanuts  and  ginger-pop. 

And  Miss  Fleece,  who's  a  hosier,  and  not  quite  as  young, 

But  is  wealthier  far  than  Miss  Flounce, 
She  "  entertains"  also  to-night  with  cold  tongue, 

Smoked  herring,  and  cherry-bounce. 

In  praise  of  cold  water  the  Theban  bard  spoke, 

He  of  Teos  sang  sweetly  of  wine ; 
Miss  Flounce  is  a  Pindar  in  cashmere  and  cloak, 

Miss  Fleece  an  Anacreon  divine. 

The  Montagues  carry  the  day  in  Swamp  Place ; 

In  Pike  Street  the  Capulets  reign ; 
A  limonadiere  is  the  badge  of  one  race, 

Of  the  other  a  flask  of  champagne. 

Now  as  each  the  same  evening  her  soiree  announces, 

What  better,  he  asks,  can  be  done 
Than  drink  water  from  eight  until  ten  with  the  Flounces, 

And  then  wine  with  the  Fleeces  till  one  ! 


SONG. 


AIR  :  "  To  ladies'  eyes  a  round,  boy." 

MOORE. 


|HE  winds  of  March  are  humming 

Their  parting  song,  their  parting  song, 
And  summer  skies  are  coming, 

And  days  grow  long,  and  days  grow  long. 
I  watch,  but  not  in  gladness, 

Our  garden-tree,  our  garden-tree ; 
It  buds,  in  sober  sadness, 
Too  soon  for  me,  too  soon  for  me. 
My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas  !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover : 
Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 

'Tis  not  asleep  or  idle 

That  Love  has  been,  that  Love  has  been ; 
For  many  a  happy  bridal 

The  year  has  seen,  the  year  has  seen  ; 
I've  done  a  bridemaid's  duty, 

At  three  or  four,  at  three  or  four ; 
My  best  bouquet  had  beauty, 

Its  donor  more,  its  donor  more. 


198  SONG. 

My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas  !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover  : 

Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 

His  flowers  my  bosom  shaded 

One  sunny  day,  one  sunny  day ; 
The  next  they  fled  and  faded, 

Beau  and  bouquet,  beau  and  bouquet. 
In  vain,  at  balls  and  parties, 

I've  thrown  my  net,  I've  thrown  my  net ; 
This  waltzing,  watching  heart  is 
Unchosen  yet,  unchosen  yet. 
My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas  !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover : 
Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 

They  tell  me  there's  no  hurry 

For  Hymen's  ring,  for  Hymen's  ring ; 
And  I'm  too  young  to  marry : 

'Tis  no  such  thing,  'tis  no  such  thing. 
The  next  spring-tides  will  dash  on 

My  eighteenth  year,  my  eighteenth  year ; 
It  puts  me.  in  a  passion, 
Oh,  dear,  oh  dear !  oh  dear,  oh  dear  ! 
My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas  !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover : 

Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


SONG. 

FOR    THE    DRAMA    OF    "THE    SPY." 

|HE  harp  of  love,  when  first  I  heard 

Its  song  beneath  the  moonlight  tree, 
Was  echoed  by  his  plighted  word, 

And  ah,  how  dear  its  song  to  me  ! 
But  wailed  the  hour  will  ever  be 

When  to  the  air  the  bugle  gave, 
To  hush  love's  gentle  minstrelsy, 
The  wild  war-music  of  the  brave. 

• 
For  he  hath  heard  its  song,  and  now 

Its  voice  is  sweeter  than  mine  own  ; 
And  he  hath  broke  the  plighted  vow 

He  breathed  to  me  and  love  alone. 
That  harp  hath  lost  its  wonted  tone, 

No  more  its  strings  his  fingers  move, 
Oh  would  that  he  had  only  known 

The  music  of  the  harp  of  love  ! 


ADDRESS. 

AT    TH£    OPENING    OF    A    NEW    THEATRE 

November,  1831. 

[HERE  dwells  the  Drama's  spirit?  not  alone 
Beneath  the  palace  roof,  beside  the  throne, 
In  learning's  cloisters,  friendship's  festal  bowers, 
Art's  pictured  halls,  or  triumph's  laurelled  towers, 
Where'er  man's  pulses  beat,  or  passions  play, 
She  joys  to  smile  or  sigh  his  thoughts  away : 
Crowd  times  and  scenes  within  her  ring  of  power, 
And  teach  a  life's  experience  in  an  hour. 

• 

To-night  she  greets,  for  the  first  time,  our  dome, 
Her  latest,  may  it  prove  her  lasting  home ; 
And  we  her  messengers  delighted  stand, 
The  summoned  Ariels  of  her  mystic  wand, 
To  ask  your  welcome.     Be  it  yours  to  give 
Bliss  to  her  coming  hours,  and  bid  her  live 
Within  these  walls  new  hallowed  in  her  cause, 
Long  in  the  nurturing  warmth  of  your  applause. 

'Tis  in  the  public  smiles,  the  public  loves, 

His  dearest  home,  the  actor  breathes  and  moves, 


ADDRESS.  201 

Your  plaudits  are  to  us  and  to  our  art 
As  is  the  life-blood  to  the  human  heart : 
And  every  power  that  bids  the  leaf  be  green, 
In  Nature  acts  on  this  her  mimic  scene. 
Our  sunbeams  are  the  sparklings  of  glad  eyes, 
Our  winds  the  whisper  of  applause,  that  flies 
From  lip  to  lip,  the  heart-born  laugh  of  glee, 
And  sounds  of  cordial  hands  that  ring  out  merrily, 
And  heaven's  own  dew  falls  on  us  in  the  tear 
That  woman  weeps  o'er  sorrows  pictured  here. 
When  crowded  feelings  have  no  words  to  tell 
The  might,  the  magic  of  the  actor's  spell. 

These  have  been  ours ;  and  do  we  hope  in  vain   • 
Here,  oft  and  deep,  to  feel  them  ours  again? 
No !  while  the  weary  heart  can  find  repose 
From  its  own  pains  in  fiction's  joys  or  woes  ; 
While  there  are  open  lips  and  dimpled  cheeks, 
When  music  breathes,  or  wit  or  humor  speaks ; 
While  Shakespeare's  master-spirit  can  call  up 
Noblest  and  worthiest  thoughts,  and  brim  the  cup 
Of  life  with  bubbles  bright  as  happiness, 
Cheating  the  willing  bosom  into  bliss  ; 
So  long  will  those  who,  in  their  spring  of  youth, 
Have  listened  to  the  Drama's  voice  of  truth, 
Marked  in  her  scenes  the  manners  of  their  age, 
And  gathered  knowledge  for  a  wider  stage, 
Come  here  to  speed  with  smiles  life's  summer  years, 
And  melt  its  winter  snow  with  pleasant  tears ; 


202  ADDRESS. 

And  younger  hearts,  when  ours  are  hushed  and  cold, 
Be  happy  here  as  we  have  been  of  old. 

Friends  of  the  stage,  who  hail  it  as  the  shrine 
Where  music,  painting,  poetry  entwine 
Their  kindred  garlands,  whence  their  blended  power 
Refines,  exalts,  ennobles  hour  by  hour 
The  spirit  of  the  land,  and,  like  the  wind, 
Unseen  but  felt,  bears  on  the  bark  of  mind ; 
To  you  the  hour  that  consecrates  this  dome, 
Will  call  up  dreams  of  prouder  hours  to  come, 
When  some  creating  poet,  born  your  own, 
May  waken  here  the  drama's  loftiest  tone, 
Through  after-years  to  echo  loud  and  long, 
A  Shakespeare  of  the  West,  a  star  of  song, 
Bright'ning  your  own  blue  skies  with  living  fire, 
All  times  to  gladden  and  all  tongues  inspire, 
Far  as  beneath  the  heaven  by  sea-winds  fanned, 
Floats  the  free  banner  of  your  native  land. 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER. 


WRITTEN  WHILE  SAILING  IN  AN    OPEN    BOAT  ON    THE    HUDSON    RIVER, 

BETWEEN  STONY  POINT  AND    THE  HIGHLANDS,  ON  SEEING 

THE    WRECK    OF    AN    OLD    SLOOP,    JUNE,    1 821. 


'And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


|ER  side  is  in  the  water, 

Her  keel  is  in  the  sand, 
And  her  bowsprit  rests  on  the  low  gray  rock 
That  bounds  the  sea  and  land. 

Her  deck  is  without  a  mast, 

And  sand  and  shells  are  there, 

And  the  teeth  of  decay  are  gnawing  her  planks, 
In  the  sun  and  the  sultry  air. 

No  more  on  the  river's  bosom, 

When  sky  and  wave  are  calm, 
And  the  clouds  are  in  summer  quietness 

And  the  cool  night-breath  is  balm, 

Will  she  glide  in  the  swan-like  stillness 
Of  the  moon  in  the  blue  above, 


204        THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER. 

A  messenger  from  other  lands, 
A  beacon  to  hope  and  love. 

No  more,  in  the  midnight  tempest, 

Will  she  mock  the  mounting  sea, 
Strong  in  her  oaken  timbers, 
An  d  her  white  sail's  bravery. 

She  hath  borne,  in  days  departed, 
Warm  hearts  upon  her  deck ; 

Those  hearts,  like  her,  are  mouldering  now, 
The  victims,  and  the  wreck 

Of  time,  whose  touch  erases 

Each  vestige  of  all  we  love ; 
The  wanderers,  home  returning, 

Who  gazed  that  deck  above, 

And  they  who  stood  to  welcome 
Their  loved  ones  on  that  shore, 

Are  gone,  and  the  place  that  knew  them 
Shall  know  them  never  more. 


It  was  a  night  of  terror, 

In  the  autumn  equinox, 
When  that  gallant  vessel  found  a  grave 

Upon  the  Peekskill  rocks. 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER, 

Captain,  mate,  cook,  and  seamen 
(They  were  in  all  but  three), 

Were  saved  by  swimming  fast  and  well, 
And  their  gallows-destiny. 

But  two,  a  youth  and  maiden, 
Were  left  to  brave  the  storm, 

With  unpronounceable  Dutch  names, 
And  hearts  with  true-love  warm. 

And  they,  for  love  has  watchers 
In  air,  on  earth,  and  sea, 

Were  saved  by  clinging  to  the  wreck, 
And  their  marriage-destiny. 

From  sunset  to  night's  noon 

She  had  leaned  upon  his  arm, 

Nor  heard  the  far-off  thunder  toll 
The  tocsin  of  alarm. 

Not  so  the  youth — he  listened 

To  the  cloud- wing  flapping  by; 

And  low  he  whispered  in  Low  Dutch, 
"  It  tells  our  doom  is  nigh. 

"  Death  is  the  lot  of  mortals, 

But  we  are  young  and  strong, 

And  hoped,  not  boldly,  for  a  life 
Of  happy  years  and  long. 


205 


2o6       THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER 

"  Yet  'tis  a  thought  consoling, 

That,  till  our  latest  breath, 
We  loved  in  life,  and  shall  not  be 

Divided  in  our  death. 

"  Alas,  for  those  that  wait  us 

On  their  couch  of  dreams  at  home, 

The  morn  will  hear  the  funeral-cry 
Around  their  daughter's  tomb. 

"  They  hoped  "  ('twas  a  strange  moment 
In  Dutch  to  quote  Shakespeare) 

"  Thy  bride-bed  to  have  decked,  sweet  maid, 
And  not  have  strewed  thy  bier." 

But  sweetly-voiced  and  smiling, 

The  trusting  maiden  said, 
"  Breathed  not  thy  lips  the  vow  to-day, 

To-morrow  we  will  wed  ? 

"  And  I,  who  have  known  thy  truth 
Through  years  of  joy  and  sorrow, 

Can  I  believe  the  fickle  winds  ? 

No !  we  shall  wed  to-morrow  !  " 

The  tempest  heard  and  paused — 
The  wild  sea  gentler  moved — 

They  felt  the  power  of  woman's  faith 
In  the  word  of  him  she  loved. 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER.       2O; 

All  night  to  rope  and  spar 

They  clung  with  strength  untired, 
Till  the  dark  clouds  fled  before  the  sun, 

And  the  fierce  storm  expired. 

At  noon  the  song  of  bridal  bells 

O'er  hill  and  valley  ran ; 
At  eve  he  called  the  maiden  his, 

"  Before  the  holy  man." 

They  dwelt  beside  the  waters 

That  bathe  yon  fallen  pine, 
And  round  them  grew  their  sons  and  daughters, 

Like  wild-grapes  on  the  vine. 

And  years  and  years  flew  o'er  them, 

Like  birds  with  beauty  on  their  wings, 

And  theirs  were  happy  sleigh-ride  winters, 
And  long  and  lovely  springs — 

Such  joys  as  thrilled  the  lips  that  kissed 

The  wave,  rock-cooled,  from  Horeb's  fountains, 

And  sorrows,  fleeting  as  the  mist 

Of  morning,  spread  upon  the  mountains, 

Till,  in  a  good  old  age, 

Their  life-breath  passed  away  ; 
Their  name  is  on  the  churchyard  page — 

Their  story  in  my  lay. 


2o8        THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER. 

And  let  them  rest  together, 

The  maid,  the  boat,  the  boy, 
Why  sing  of  matrimony  now, 

In  this  brief  hour  of  joy  ? 

Our  time  may  come,  and  let  it — 

'Tis  enough  for  us  now  to  know 
That  our  bark  will  reach  West  Point  ere  long, 

If  the  breeze  keep  on  to  blow. 

We  have  Hudibras  and  Milton, 

Wines,  flutes,  and  a  bugle-horn, 

And  a  dozen  cigars  are  lingering  yet 
Of  the  thousand  of  yester-morn. 

They  have  gone,  like  life's  first  pleasures, 

And  faded  in  smoke  away, 
And  the  few  that  are  left  are  like  bosom  friends 

In  the  evening  of  our  day. 

We  are  far  from  the  mount  of  battle,* 

Where  the  wreck  first  met  mine  eye, 

And  now  where  twin  forts  f  in  the  olden  time  rose, 

Through  the  Race,  like  a  swift  steed,  our  little  bark 
goes, 

And  our  bugle's  notes  echo  through  Anthony's  Nose, 
So  wrecks  and  rhymes — good-by. 

*  Stony  Point  t  Forts  Clinton  and  Montgomery. 


LINES 

TO  HER  WHO  CAN  UNDERSTAND  THEM. 

AIR  :  "  To  ladies'  eyes  a  round,  boy !  " 

|  HE  song  that  o'er  me  hovered, 

In  summer's  hour,  in  summer's  hour, 
To-day  with  joy  has  covered 

My  winter  bower,  my  winter  bower. 
Blest  be  the  lips  that  breathe  it, 

As  mine  have  been,  as  mine  have  been, 
When  pressed  in  dreams  beneath  it, 

To  hers  unseen,  to  hers  unseen. 
And  may  her  heart,  wherever 

Its  hope  may  be,  its  hope  may  be, 
Beat  happily,  though  never 

To  beat  for  me,  to  beat  for  me  ! 

Is  she  a  spirit  given 

One  hour  to  earth,  one  hour  to  earth, 
To  bring  me  dreams  from  heaven, 

Her  place  of  birth,  her  place  of  birth  ? 
Or  minstrel  maiden  hidden, 

Like  cloistered  nun,  like  cloistered  nun, 
A  bud,  a  flower  forbidden, 

To  air  and  sun,  to  air  and  sun  ? 


210  LINES. 

For  had  I  power  to  summon, 
With  harp  divine,  with  harp  divine, 

The  angel  or  the  woman, 

The  last  were  mine,  the  last  were  mine. 

If  earth-born  beauty's  fingers 

Awaked  the  lay,  awaked  the  lay, 
Whose  echoed  music  lingers 

Around  my  way,  around  my  way, 
Where  smiles  the  hearth  she  blesses 

With  voice  and  eye,  with  voice  and  eye  ? 
Where  binds  the  night  her  tresses, 

When  sleep  is  nigh,  when  sleep  is  nigh  ! 
Is  Fashion's  bleak  cold  mountain 

Her  bosom's  throne,  her  bosom's  throne  ? 
Or  love's  green  vale  and  fountain, 

With  one  alone,  with  one  alone  ? 

Why  ask !  why  seek  a  treasure 

Like  her  I  sing,  like  her  I  sing  ? 
Her  name  nor  pain  nor  pleasure 

To  me  should  bring,  to  me  should  bring. 
Love  must  not  grieve  or  gladden 

My  thoughts  of  snow,  my  thoughts  of  snow, 
Nor  woman  soothe  or  sadden 

My  path  below,  my  path  below. 
Before  a  worldlier  altar 

I've  knelt  too  long,  I've  knelt  too  long ; 
And  if  my  footsteps  falter, 

'Tis  but  in  song,  'tis  but  in  song. 


LINES.  211 

Nor  would  I  break  the  vision 

Young  fancies  frame,  young  fancies  frame, 
That  lights  with  stars  Elysian 

A  poet's  name,  a  poet's  name. 
For  she  whose  gentle  spirit 

Such  dreams  sublime,  such  dreams  sublime, 
Gives  hues  they  do  not  merit 

To  sons  of  rhyme,  to  sons  of  rhyme, 
But  place  the  proudest  near  her, 

Whate'er  their  pen,  whate'er  their  pen, 
She'll  say  (be  mute  who  hear  her) 

Mere  mortal  men,  mere  mortal  men  ! 

Yet  though  unseen,  unseeing, 

We  meet  and  part,  we  meet  and  part, 
Be  still  my  worshipped  being, 

In  mind  and  heart,  in  mind  and  heart. 
And  bid  thy  song  that  found  me, 

My  minstrel-maid,  my  minstrel-maid  ! 
Be  winter's  sunbeam  round  me, 

And  summer's  shade,  and  summer's  shade. 
I  could  not  gaze  upon  thee, 

And  dare  thy  spell,  and  dare  thy  spell, 
And  when  a  happier  won  thee, 

Thus  bid  farewell,  thus  bid  farewell. 
01 


TRANSLATION   FROM   THE  FRENCH   OF 
VICTOR   HUGO. 

|E  PoSte,  inspire  lorsque  la  terre  ignore, 
Ressemble  a*  les  grands  monts  que  la  nou- 

velle  aurore 

Dore  avant  tous  £  son  reveil, 
Et  qui,  longtemps  vainqueur  de  I'ombre, 
G  ardent  j  usque  dans  la  nuit  sombre 
Le  dernier  rayon  du  soleil. 


Moorland  and  meadow  slumber 

In  deepest  darkness  now, 
But  the  sunrise  hues  of  the  wakened  day 

Smile  on  the  mountain's  brow. 

And  when  eve's  mists  are  shrouding 

Moorland  and  meadow  fast, 
That  mountain  greets  day's  sunset  light, 

Her  loveliest  and  her  last. 

And  thus  the  God-taught  minstrel, 

Above  a  land  untaught, 
Smiles  lonely  in  the  smiles  of  heaven 

From  his  hill-tops  of  thought. 


ALBUM   VERSES. 

JITHIN  a  rock,  whose  shadows  linger, 
At  moonlight  hours,  on  Erie's  sea, 
Some  unseen,  Indian  spirit's  finger 

Woke  in  far  times  sweet  minstrelsy. 
'Twas  in  the  summer  twilight  only, 

When  evening  winds  the  green  leaves  stirred, 
And  all  beside  was  mute  and  lonely 
Its  wild  aerial  tones  were  heard. 

So  I — that  fabled  rock  resembling, 

With  heart  as  cold,  and  head  as  hard — 
Appear,  although  with  fear  and  trembling, 

At  Beauty's  call,  as  Beauty's  bard. 
Yet  why  despair  if  winds  can  summon 

Minstrels  and  music  when  they  please  ? 
For  who  but  deems  the  lips  of  woman 

More  potent  than  an  evening  breeze  ? 

Her  lips  the  magic  word  have  spoken, 
That  bids  me  call  from  far  and  near 

Each  minstrel-pen,  to  leave  its  token 
Of  fealty  and  of  friendship  here. 

These  consecrated  leaves  are  given 
To  you,  ye  rhyme-composing  elves ; 


214  ALBUM  VERSES. 

To  poets  who  were  taught  by  Heaven, 
And  poets  who  have  taught  themselves. 

To  wits,  whose  thistle-shafts  by  flowers 

Are  hid,  their  points  in  balsam  dipped ; 
To  humor,  in  his  happiest  hours, 

And  punsters — if  their  wings  are  clipped. 
But  friendship,  with  her  smiling  features, 

Will  come,  'tis  hoped,  without  a  call ; 
For  though  your  wits  are  clever  creatures, 

One  line  of  hers  is  worth  them  all. 

Let  names  of  heroes  and  of  sages, 

On  history's  leaf  eternal  be ; 
A  few  brief  years  on  Beauty's  pages 

Are  worth  their  immortality. 
At  least  this  charmed  book  permits  us 

To  brave  oblivion's  withering  power, 
Till  she  who  summons  us,  forgets  us ; 

And  who  would  live  beyond  that  hour  ? 


ODE   TO   GOOD-HUMOR. 

|  AID  of  the  sweet,  engaging  smile  ! 

Companion  of  our  hours  of  peace  ! 
Whose  soothing  arts  can  care  beguile, 
And  bid  discordant  passions  cease ; 
Virtue  in  thee  her  favorite  hails, 
And  dwells  where'er  thy  sway  prevails, 
Life's  fairest  charms  to  thee  we  owe, 
The  source  of  pure  delight,  the  healing  balm  of  woe  ! 

Can  rapture  thrill  congenial  hearts, 

Entwined  by  Friendship's  wreath  divine  ? 
If  aught  of  bliss  its  bond  imparts, 

The  praise,  enchanting  maid !  be  thine. 
Can  we  a  soft  attractive  grace 
In  the  bright  beam  of  Beauty  trace  ? 
'Tis  only  when  with  thee  combined, 
Her  powers  can  justly  claim  the  homage  of  the  mind ! 

When  the  first  pair  in  Eden's  bower 
Enjoyed  the  favoring  smile  of  Heaven, 

Thy  influence  brightened  every  flower, 
And  blessed  the  balmy  breeze  of  even. 

And  since  in  Love's  connubial  ties, 

We  best  can  learn  thy  sweets  to  prize, 


2l6  ODE  TO  GOOD-HUMOR. 

'Tis  in  affection's  fond  domain, 
Where  still  unruffled  joys  denote  thy  golden  reign. 

Deprived  of  thee,  does  earth  possess 

One  charm  to  bind  us  here  below  ? 

In  vain  may  pomp  and  power  caress, 

Or  wealth  its  glittering  gifts  bestow. 
Lost  is  their  worth  when  thou  art  fled, 
When  Discord  lifts  her  sceptre  dread, 
And  pallid  Envy,  Care,  and  Strife 
Unite  their  darkening  clouds  to  veil  the  noon  of  life. 

But  when  thy  welcome  steps  appear, 

This  dreaded  train  of  evil  flies, 
Gay  Cheerfulness  is  ever  near, 

And  calm  Content  with  placid  eyes ; 
And  all  that  to  the  soul  endears 
This  dreary  wilderness  of  years, 
All  that  our  happiest  hours  employ, 
When  beats  the  willing  heart  to  transport  and  to  joy. 

Where'er  I  tread  this  varied  scene, 

Good-Humor !  on  my  path  attend ; 
Alike  when  pleasure  smiles  serene, 

Or  pain  and  grief  my  bosom  rend, 
Do  thou  infuse  thy  sovereign  power, 
In  youth's  gay  morn,  in  manhood's  hour, 
Or  when,  in  age,  life's  parting  ray 
But  faintly  lingers  low  ere  yet  it  fades  away  I 
1811. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF 
GENERAL  LALLEMAND. 

|  WEET  maid  !  whose  life  the  frost  of  destiny 
Withered  while  yet  its  first  spring-leaves  were 

green; 

Pure,  sainted  being !  from  thy  home  on  high, 
Look  with  thine  eyes  of  love,  upon  the  scene 
Where,  for  one  little  hour,  thy  spirit  moved, 
A  visitant — to  love,  and  to  be  loved, 
And  where  thy  song  of  youth  to  virtue  gave 
The  music  of  its  praises — the  green  bowers 
Of  home  and  friendship  wreathed  with  fadeless  flowers, 
And  made  the  laurel  dearer  to  the  brave. 

Still  do  the  hearts  that  loved  thee,  beat  for  thee 
Warmly,  as  when  they  beat  beside  thy  bier. 
And  still  to  them,  of  earthly  things  most  dear 
And  sacred,  is  thy  pledge  of  memory — 
A  father's  gift,  whose  every  cherished  word 
Bids  the  sweet  echo  of  thy  song  be  heard ; 
And  fain  would  bid  their  sorrows  cease  to  be. 
Would  it  could  soothe  a  mother's  griefs,  but  they 
Are  graven  deep,  and  will  not  pass  away  I 


2i8       FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  GEN.  LALLEMAND. 

Blest  spirit !  long  as  at  the  name  alone 

Of  their  Eliza,  tears  are  seen  to  start, 

And  sighs  are  breathed,  whose  birthplace  is  the  heart 

Look  on  thy  friends  from  thine  ethereal  throne, 

With  smiles  that  greeted  them  in  happier  days; 

And  pardon  one  to  thee,  and  thine  unknown, 

Whose  Stranger  hand  strews  flowers  upon  thy  tomb, 

For  he  hath  heard  the  music  of  thy  lays, 

And  who  can  listen  to  its  tones,  nor  raise 

His  thoughts  to  thee,  and  thine  Eternal  home  ? 


THE   VISION   OF   ELIPHAZ. 

PARAPHRASED    FROM    JOB 

'|JS15||WAS  in  the  solemn  midnight  hour, 
ISUil    When  sleep  extends  its  balmy  power, 

The  slumbering  world  around ; 
When  Darkness,  o'er  the  extensive  globe 
Spreads,  far  and  wide,  its  sable  robe, 

And  Silence  reigns  profound ! 

As  wrapped  in  lonely  solitude, 
The  starry  canopy  I  viewed, 

In  pensive  thought  reclined ; 
A  sudden  tremor  chilled  my  blood, 
My  hair,  with  horror,  upright  stood, 

And  terror  filled  my  mind. 

Before  mine  eyes  a  spirit  passed — 
I  gazed,  with  trembling  looks,  aghast ! 

As  o'er  the  path  it  flew ; 
It  stood,  but  naught  could  I  descry, 
The  gloom,  that  veiled  the  midnight  sky, 

Concealed  it  from  my  view. 


220  THE   VISION  OF  ELIPHAZ. 

Dread  Silence  reigned !  I,  shuddering,  feared ! 
When  suddenly  a  voice  I  heard, 

In  slow  and  solemn  tone : 
"Shall  man,"  it  cried,  "presume  to  vie 
In  justice,  and  in  majesty, 

With  Heaven's  Eternal  Throne  ? 


"  Can  man  more  purity  display 

Than  He,  who  formed  him  from  the  clay, 

The  offspring  of  the  dust  ? 
Behold  !  to  those  that  round  Him  stand, 
Attentive  to  His  dread  command, 

He  gives  no  charge,  or  trust. 

"Even  angels,  next  in  might  to  God, 
Submissive  at  His  footstool  nod, 

And  own  superior  power ; 
And  ah  !  how  much  !  how  far  below 
Are  mortals,  doomed  to  pain  and  woe. 

The  pageants  of  an  hour.  . 

"Before  the  meanest  worm  they  die, 
And,  mouldering  into  dust,  they  lie, 

Within  the  earth's  cold  bed. 
Many,  on  whom  the  morn  arose, 
Before  the  evening  shades,  repose 

In  mansions  of  the  dead. 


THE  VISION  OF  ELIPHAZ. 

"  And  soon  their  memory  is  no  more, 
Long  ages  roll  successive  o'er, 

And  other  scenes  arise ; 
And,  leagued  with  their  departing  breath, 
Before  the  fatal  shaft  of  death, 

Their  boasted  knowledge  flies." 

1809. 


221 


A  POETICAL  EPISTLE. 

TO    MRS.    RUSH. 

] AD Y,  I  thank  you  for  your  letter ; 

Would  that  these  rhymes  it  asks  were  bettei 
Worthy  of  her  who  taught 
My  song,  when  life  was  in  its  June, 
To  mingle  heart  with  word  and  tune, 
And  melody  with  thought. 

Gone  are  the  days  of  sunny  weather 

(I  quote  remembered  words),  when  we 
"Revelled  in  poetry"  together; 

And  frightened  leaves  from  off  their  tree, 
With  declamation  loud  and  long, 
From  epic  sage  and  merry  song, 

And  odes,  and  madrigals,  and  sonnets, 
Till  all  the  birds  within  the  wood, 
And  people  of  the  neighborhood 

Said  we'd  "a  bee  in  both  our  bonnets." 
And  he 1  sat  listening,  he  the  most 
Honored  and  loved,  and  early  lost — 
He  in  whose  mind's  brief  boyhood  hour 
Was  blended  by  the  marvellous  power 

1  Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


A   POETICAL  EPISTLE.  223 

That  Heaven-sent  genius  gave, 
The  green  blade  with  the  golden  grain ; 
Alas !  to  bloom  and  beard  in  vain, 
Sheafed  round  a  sick-room's  bed  of  pain, 

And  garnered  in  the  grave. 

They  are  far  away,  those  sunny  days, 
And  since  we  watched  their  setting  rays, 
The  music  of  the  voice  of  praise 
From  many  a  land,  and  many  a  clime, 
Has  greeted  my  astonished  rhyme ; 
Till  half  in  doubt,  half  pleased,  it  curled 
Its  queerest  lip  upon  the  world, 
But  never  heard  I  flattery's  tone 
Sounding  around  me,  "Bard,  well  done  !  " 
Without  a  blessing  on  the  One 
Who  flattered  first — the  bonnie  nurse 
Whose  young  hand  rocked  my  cradled  verse. 

Long  may  her  voice,  as  now,  be  near 
To  prompt,  to  pardon,  and  to  cheer ; 
And  long  be  smiles  for  goodness'  sake, 

Upon  her  best  of  happy  faces, 
Like  Spenser's  Una's  given  to  make 

A  sunshine  in  the  shadiest  places  I 


THE  BLUEBIRD. 

ON    ITS    FIRST   APPEARANCE    IN    THE    SPRING    OF    l8lO. 

| AIL  !  warbling  harbinger  of  Spring  ! 

How  soft  thy  wild  notes  fill  the  breeze  ! 
Raptured,  I  hear  thy  fluttering  wing, 
Low  murmuring  'mong  the  leafless  trees. 

Now  when  all  lone  and  drear 
Bleak  Winter  holds  her  gloomy  reign, 
And  spreads  afar  her  wide  domain, 
O'er  brake  and  dell,  and  lawn  and  plain, 

With  joy  thy  notes  we  hear ; 
Their  simple  strains  a  charm  impart, 
Dear  to  the  languid,  aching  heart. 

Say,  hast  thou  left  yon  mountains  mild, 

Where  southern  gales  ambrosial  blow  ? 
To  cheer  our  fields  now  lone  and  wild, 
And  ice-chained  valleys  clad  in  snow, 

The  opening  spring  to  hail  ? 
To  bring  the  rosy  charms  of  May, 
The  feathered  choir  of  warblers  gay, 
And  clothe  in  Nature's  green  array, 
The  mountain  and  the  vale  ? 


THE  BLUEBIRD. 

Then  welcome  to  our  groves  once  more, 
Thou  token  sure  that  winter's  o'er. 

Sweet  Bird !  the  grateful  muse  shall  pay 
Her  homage  and  her  love  to  thee ; 

To  thee  attune  her  earliest  lay, 
And  wake  the  lyre's  soft  harmony ; 
While  each  exulting  mind 

Shall  join,  accordant  with  her  lays, 

And  every  hand  unite  to  raise 

A  wreath  of  honorary  bays, 

Around  thy  plumes  to  bind ; 

To  crown  thee  first  of  all  the  train 

Whose  sportive  warblings  glad  the  plain. 

Ye  wintry  clouds  !  that  o'er  the  heart 
A  shade  of  sable  horror  threw ! 

Ye  shadowy  sorrows  !  hence  !  depart — 
Ye  heart-corroding  thoughts — adieu  ! 
With  all  your  gloomy  train, 

On  wings  of  stormy  tempests  fly 

To  Zembla's  coasts  or  Scythia's  sky ; 

Then  deep  in  trackless  deserts  lie, 
And  ne'er  return  again. 

Let  life  a  cheerful  prospect  wear, 

Uncurtained  by  thy  clouds'  despair  ! 

The  mournful  grove,  in  weeds  forlorn, 
Bewails  her  festive  summer  bower : 


226  THE  BLUEBIRD. 

No  warblers  now  to  wake  the  morn, 
Or  charm  the  lonely  evening  hour  ! 

The  warblers  all  are  gone. 
Wild  is  the  dreary  prospect  round, 
Hushed  is  the  murmuring  torrents'  sound, 
And  solemn  silence  reigns  profound, 

Terrific  and  alone  ! 
Wild  the  deserted  groves  appear, 
Untuneful,  desolate,  and  drear ! 


But  ah  !  yon  songster's  glad  return 
Proclaims  thy  reign  will  soon  be  o'er ; 
And  bids  the  heart  no  longer  mourn, 
The  Spring  will  soon  return  once  more, 

And  Nature  smile  serene. 
Her  smiles  shall  dissipate  the  gloom, 
Again  the  fairest  flowers  shall  bloom, 
And  Summer  soon  her  seat  resume, 

Her  robes  of  brightest  green ; 
Again  the  groves  in  state  shall  rise, 
And  purest  azure  gild  the  skies. 


Hail !  grateful  songster,  tuneful  bird  ! 

Thou  earliest  pledge  of  spring,  all  hail ! 
How  sweet  thy  plaintive  notes  are  heard 
Floating  adown  the  balmy  gale  ! 
How  sweet  thy  morning  song  ! 


HONOR  TO   WOMAN. 

As  wildly  trembling — soft  and  slow, 
Its  wood-notes  fill  yon  vale  below, 
Or,  on  resounding  echoes,  flow 

The  distant  hills  along. 
Then  welcome,  lovely  warbler,  here 
Thy  lay  announcing,  "  Spring  is  near!  " 


HONOR  TO  WOMAN. 

FROM   THE   GERMAN   OF   GOETHE. 

]LL  honor  to  WOMAN,  the  Sweetheart,  the  Wife, 
The  delight  of  our  homesteads  by  night  and 

by  day, 

The  darling  who  never  does  harm  in  her  life, 
Except  when  determined  to  have  her  own  way. 


TO  ELLEN. 

JHE  Scottish  Border  Minstrel's  lay 

Entranced  me  oft  in  boyhood's  day ; 
His  forests,  glens,  and  streams, 
Mountains,  and  heather  blooming  fair, 
And  Highland  lake,  and  lady,  were 
The  playmates  of  my  dreams. 

Years  passed  away— my  dreams  were  gone ; 
My  pilgrim  footsteps  passed  at  noon 

Loch  Katrine's  storied  shores : 
In  silence  slept  the  fairy  lake, 
Nor  did  the  mountain-echoes  wake 

At  music  of  my  oars. 

No  tramp  of  warrior-men  I  heard ; 
Welcome-song,  or  challenge-word, 

I  listened,  but  in  vain ; 
And,  moored  beside  his  favorite  tree, 
As  vainly  wooed  the  minstrelsy 

Of  gray-haired  Allan  Bane. 

I  saw  the  Highland  heath-flower  smile 
In  beauty,  upon  Ellen's  isle  j 


TO  ELLEN.  229 


And,  couched  in  Ellen's  bower, 
I  watched,  beneath  its  latticed  leaves, 
Her  coming,  through  a  summer  eve's 

Youngest  and  loveliest  hour. 

She  came  not — lonely  was  her  home ; 
Herself  of  airy  shapes  "  that  come 

Like  shadows,  so  depart." 
Are  there  two  Ellens  of  the  mind  ? 
Or  have  I  lived  at  last  to  find 

The  Ellen  of  my  heart  ? 

For  music,  like  Sir  Walter's,  now 
Rings  round  me,  and  again  I  bow 

Before  the  shrine  of  song, 
Devoutly  as  I  bowed  in  youth ; 
For  hearts  that  worship  there,  in  truth 

And  joy,  are  ever  young. 

And  dear  the  harp  that  sings  to-day, 
And  well  its  gladdened  strings  obey 

Its  minstrel's  loved  command — 
A  minstrel-maid's,  whose  infant  eyes 
Looked  on  Ohio's  woods  and  skies, 

My  youth's  unheard-of  land. 

And  beautiful  that  wreath  she  twines 

Round  Albi  cottage  bowered  in  vines, 

Or  blest  in  sleigh-bell  mirth ; 


230  TO  ELLEN. 

And  loveliest  is  her  song  that  seems 
To  bid  me  welcome  in  my  dreams, 
Beside  its  winter  hearth. 

And  must  I  deem  her  beckoning  smile 
But  pleasant  mockery,  to  beguile 

Some  lonely  hour  of  care  ? 
And  will  this  Ellen  prove  to  be 
But  like  her  namesake  o'er  the  sea, 

A  BEING  OF  THE  AIR  ? 

Or  shall  I  take  the  morning  wing, 
Armed  with  a  parson  and  a  ring, 

Speed  hill  and  dale  along ; 
And,  at  her  cottage-fire  ere  night, 
Change  into  flutterings  of  delight, 
Or  what's  more  likely,  of  affright, 

The  merry  mockbird's  song  ? 


MEMORY. 

(TRONG  as  that  power  whose  strange  control 

Impels  the  torrent's  force ; 
Directs  the  needle  to  the  pole, 
And  bids  the  waves  of  ocean  roll 

In  their  appointed  course ; 
So  powerful  are  the  ties  that  bind 
The  scenes  of  childhood  to  the  mind ; 
So  firmly  to  the  heart  adheres 
The  memory  of  departed  years. 

Whence  is  this  passion  in  the  breast  ? 

That  when  the  past  we  view, 
And  think  on  pleasures,  once  possessed, 
In  Fancy's  fairest  colors  dressed, 

Those  pleasures  we  renew  ? 
And  why  do  memory's  pains  impart 
A  pleasing  sadness  to  the  heart  ? 
What  potent  charm  to  all  endears 
The  days  of  our  departed  years  ? 

True — many  a  rose-bud,  blooming  gay, 

Life's  opening  path  adorns ; 
But  all  who  tread  that  path  will  say 
That,  'mid  the  flowers  which  strew  its  way, 
Are  care's  corroding  thorns. 


232  MEMORY. 

Yet  still  the  bosom  will  retain 
Affection  even  for  hours  of  pain ; 
And  we  can  smile,  though  bathed  in  tears, 
At  memory  of  departed  years. 

'Tis  distance,  our  bewildered  gaze 

On  former  scenes,  beguiles, 
And  memory's  charm  the  eye  betrays ; 
For  while  enjoyments  it  displays 

And  robes  the  past  in  smiles, 
Its  nattering  mirror  proves  untrue, 
Conceals  the  sorrows  from  our  view, 
And  hides  the  griefs,  the  doubts,  and  fears, 
That  darkened  our  departed  years  1 

Time,  when  our  own,  we  oft  despise  ; 

When  gone,  its  loss  deplore ; 
Nor,  till  the  fleeting  moment  flies, 
Do  mortals  learn  its  worth  to  prize, 

When  it  returns  no  more. 
For  this,  an  anxious  look  we  cast, 
With  fond  regret,  on  hours  long  past — 
For  this,  the  feeling  heart  reveres 
The  memory  of  departed  years  1 
1810. 


RELIGION. 

WRITTEN    ON    A    BLANK    LEAF    OF    MY    PRAYER-BOOK. 

|HEN  Misery's  tear  and  Sorrow's  sigh 

Oppress  the  feeling  mind, 
Say — where  for  refuge  shall  we  fly  ? 
And  where  a  refuge  find  ? 

The  morn  of  life  may  open  fair, 

And  charm  the  view  awhile  ; 
The  world  around  us  then  may  wear 

A  universal  smile ; 

But  Life's  a  transitory  scene, 

Its  prospects  all  are  vain  ; 
The  bosom  that  now  beats  serene, 

Too  soon  may  throb  with  pain. 

Though  Pleasure  Youth's  gay  hours  adorn, 

The  wayward  heart  to  please, 
'Tis  fleeting  as  the  dew  of  morn, 

'Tis  fickle  as  the  breeze. 

Uncertain  is  our  mortal  breath, 
On  swiftest  wings  it  flies  ; 


234  RELIGION. 

And  soon  the  iron  hand  of  death 
Shall  close  our  dying  eyes. 

Such  is  our  state — then,  tell  me,  where, 
Oppressed  with  care  and  grief, 

The  anxious  bosom  can  repair, 
To  seek  and  find  relief? 

To  mild  Religion — heavenly  maid  ! 

Belongs  the  power  alone, 
To  dissipate  the  deepest  shade, 

That  shrouds  the  dark  unknown. 

She  gives  the  glad  inquiring  mind 

This  solemn  truth  to  know : 
"  The  soul  of  man  is  not  confined 

To  this  short  space  below." 

Then  cherish  well  the  hopes  she  gives, 

To  banish  all  our  fears  : 
"  The  disembodied  spirit  lives 

Beyond  the  vale  of  tears. 

"  Though  want,  contempt,  and  scorn,  attend 

The  virtuous  here  below, 
Their  future  bliss  shall  far  transcend 

Their  present  pain  and  woe. 


RELIGION. 

"  In  realms  of  everlasting  rest, 
Where  cares  and  sorrows  cease, 

The  sainted  spirits  of  the  blest 
Shall  find  eternal  peace." 

Then  be  to  Heaven's  will  resigned, 
And  own  Religion's  power, 

For  there  a  sure  resource  we  find, 
In  sorrow's  darkest  hour. 


235 


1 8 10. 


ii 


THE   TEMPEST. 

]ILD  beamed  the  sun's  departing  ray, 

Low  sinking  in  the  rosy  west ; 
Still  was  the  closing  hour  of  day 

Sacred  to  silence,  peace,  and  rest ! 
When  a  poor  Wanderer,  bent  with  woe, 
O'er  the  moor  travelled,  sad  and  slow. 

By  dire  misfortune  forced  to  roam, 
He  rambled  on — he  knew  not  where ; 

In  hopes  to  find  a  tranquil  home, 
To  find  relief  from  want  and  care. 

( 

The  noonday  of  his  life  was  past, 
And  Age  his  mantle  o'er  him  cast. 

He  stopped,  and,  lingering  on  his  road, 
Admired  the  lovely  prospect  round ; 

Slowly  the  lonely  heath  he  trod, 
And  gazed,  in  pleasing  thought  profound  ! 

Enraptured  at  the  enchanting  scene, 

His  bosom  heaved  with  joy  serene. 

But  sudden-lowering  clouds  arise, 

And  blackening  mists  the  scene  deform  ; 

Terrific  darkness  veils  the  skies, 
Foreboding  an  impending  storm  1 


THE  TEMPEST.  237 

The  traveller  sees  the  danger  near, 

And  shuddering  stands,  appalled  with  fear  ! 

Now  raged  the  bleak  wind  o'er  the  plain, 

The  billows  bounded  on  the  shore  ; 
Swift  fell  the  cold  and  pelting  rain, 

And  loud  the  storm  began  to  roar. 
The  unhappy  wanderer  mourned  his  fate — 
He  mourned — but  ah  !  alas  !  too  late. 

Wild  was  the  prospect,  far  and  wide, 
And  all  was  dreadful,  dark,  and  drear  ; 

No  shepherd's  sheep-pent  fold  he  spied, 
No  friendly  roof  or  shelter  near ; 

While  fiercer  still  the  tempest  grew, 

As  o'er  the  lonely  heath  it  flew. 

Yet  Hope  still  cheered  him  on  his  way : 
"  Night  soon  will  fly  with  its  dark  shade  ; 

Aurora  soon  will  ope  the  day, 
And  sweep  the  dew-drops  down  the  glade. 

Soon  will  the  fearful  storm  be  o'er, 

And  soon  you'll  see  the  cottage  door." 

But  ah  !  delusive  Hope  !  how  vain 
Are  all  thy  fond,  enrapturing  dreams  ; 
Loud  howled  the  raging  wind,  the  rain 

Still  poured  in  swift-descending  streams. 
Before  the  blast  the  forest  yields, 
And  shivered  branches  strew  the  fields. 


238  THE  TEMPEST. 

At  length,  worn  down  with  toil  and  cold, 
The  Wanderer  sunk  upon  the  heath ; 

And  ere  the  shepherd  loosed  his  fold, 
His  weary  eyes  were  closed  in  death. 

The  last,  the  dreaded  pang  is  o'er, 

And  low  he  lies,  to  rise  no  more  ! 

Such  is  Life's  journey — 'tis  a  scene 
Where  joy  and  grief  alternate  reign ; 

Where  mixed  emotions  intervene, 
Of  hope  and  fear,  of  bliss  and  pain  ; 

Where  sunbeams  dart,  and  tempests  rage, 

In  every  season,  every  age.  L  • 

As  through  this  wilderness  we  roam, 
Fond  Hope  may  wear  her  sweetest  smile, 

And  tell  of  happier  days  to  come, 
The  wearied  bosom  to  beguile  ; 

But  vanished  is  her  soothing  power, 

In  disappointment's  languid  hour. 

Then  happiest  he  whose  hopes  sublime 

Are  centred  in  the  joys  of  heaven  ; 
Calmly  adown  the  stream  of  time 

His  peaceful  bark  shall  then  be  driven. 
Firm  as  the  adamantine  rock, 
His  heart  shall  brave  "  Misfortune's  rudest  shock." 

1804. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    ON    A    BLANK    LEAF    IN    OSSIAN's    POEMS. 

|N  all  that  Genius  calls  its  own, 

The  "  Bard  of  Cona  "  soars  sublime  ! 
And  where  the  Muses'  powers  are  known, 
His  fame  shall  brave  the  blast  of  Time  ! 

His  was  the  soft  persuasive  art ! 

Whene'er  his  fingers  touched  the  lyre ; 
To  melt  in  sympathy  the  heart, 

Or  thrill  the  soul  with  Glory's  fire. 

Unblest  with  Learning's  ray  refined, 
He  warbled — Nature's  favorite  child — 

His  notes  bespoke  his  feeling  mind, 
Sublimely  simple — sweetly  wild. 

Sweet  Poet !  while  the  Muses'  flame 
Within  my  heart  enrapturing  glows, 

That  heart  shall  pay  thy  honored  name 

The  homage  which  it  justly  owes. 
1810. 


IN    HER    ISLAND    HOME. 


WRITTEN    IN    MISS    BRONSON  S    ALBUM. 


[In  the  olden  time,  a  sect  of  Persian  philosophers  formed  a  society  dedi- 
cated to  Silence.  Their  number  was  limited  to  ten.  One  of  the  brother- 
hood, a  personage  who  was  never  known  to  speak  in  his  lifetime,  and  of 
whom  no  one  has  ever  been  heard  to  speak  since,  died.  Among  the  ap- 
plicants for  the  vacant  chair  was  "Sadi,"  a  " sage  grave  man"  remarkable 
for  saying  nothing,  at  least  nothing  to  the  purpose.  Unfortunately,  ere  he 
reached  the  place  of  meeting,  the  choice  had  fallen  on  another.  The  pres- 
ident announced  this  by  placing  a  wineglass  on  the  table,  and  filling  it  up 
to  the  brim.  As  Sadi  entered,  he  pointed  toward  it  Sadi  bowed,  as  is 
usual  on  such  occasions,  then  took  a  roseleaf  from  the  floor,  and  placed  it 
so  lightly  on  the  bubbles  of  the  wine,  that  not  a  drop  was  spilt  They  re- 
ceived him. — COTTON  MATHER.] 


|N  her  island  home,  her  home  of  flowers, 

The  Queen  of  Beauty  sat  at  noon, 
In  the  shade  of  one  of  her  wild-rose  bowers, 
Watching  the  spray  of  the  bright  sea-showers, 
As  it  sparkled  in  the  sun  of  June. 

And  the  smile  of  delight  round  her  lip  that  played 

Was  as  sweet  as  a  smile  can  be, 
For  that  day  had  her  minstrel-worshippers  laid 
On  her  altar  a  book  where  each  pen  had  paid 

Its  vows  to  their  island-deity. 


TN  HER  ISLAND  HOME.  34! 

Its  words  still  breathed,  though  the  ink  was  cold 

As  the  hopes  of  the  hearts  she  had  fettered, 
A  magical  name  on  the  book  was  enrolled, 
And  its  hot-pressed  pages  were  tipped  with  gold, 
And  'twas  bound  in  green,  and  lettered. 

As  she  counted  the  leaves,  and  counted  o'er 

The  victims  her  frowns  had  killed, 
A  stranger-bard,  from  a  far-off  shore, 
Came  blushing,  and  said,  "  Here  is  one  song  more ;  * 

She  answered,  "The  pages  are  filled." 

He  sighed,  of  course,  but  he  manfully  strove 

To  check  the  sigh  as  it  rose  ; 
And,  plucking  a  roseleaf,  he  tremblingly  wove 
Into  very  bad  verses  the  tale  which,  above, 

Is  written  in  good  plain  prose. 

And  added,  "  In  coming  hours,  Lady,  when  you 

On  the  tears  of  your  victims  are  feeding, 
As  the  sunbeam  feeds  upon  drops  of  dew, 
Keep  this  withered  leaf  in  the  book — 'twill  do 
To  mark  where  you  left  off  reading." 


TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

[HERE'S  one  who  long  will  think  of  thee, 

Though  thou  art  cold  in  death's  last  sleep ; 
There's  one  will  love  thy  memory 

Till  his  own  grave  the  night-dews  steep. 
And  if  no  outward  tears  he  weep, 

And  none  his  silent  sorrows  know, 
Still  doth  his  heart  its  vigils  keep 
Beside  the  spot  where  thou  art  low. 

Sad  was  thy  mortal  pilgrimage, 

And  bitter  tears  thine  eyes  have  shed; 
But  now  the  storm  hath  spent  its  rage ; 

The  turf  is  green  above  thy  head, 
And,  loveliest  of  the  buried  dead, 

Sweet  may  thy  dreamless  slumbers  be ; 
Thy  grave  the  summer's  bridal  bed, 

Her  evening  winds  thy  minstrelsy. 

As  withered  on  thy  cheek  the  rose, 

I  cursed  the  hour  when  love  betrayed  thee ; 

'Twas  mine,  in  death,  thine  eyes  to  close, 
And  watch  till  on  the  bier  they  laid  thee. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  THE   GERMAN. 

No  gloomy  cypress-boughs  shall  shade  thee, 

No  marble  thy  sad  story  tell ; 
The  cruel  world  shall  ne'er  upbraid  thee 

With  having  loved — and  loved  too  well. 


243 


FORGET-ME-NOT. 

| HERE  flows  the  fountain  silently, 

It  blooms  a  lovely  flower; 
Blue  as  the  beauty  of  the  sky, 
It  speaks,  like  kind  fidelity, 
Through  fortune's  sun  and  shower — 
"Forget-me-not!" 

'Tis  like  thy  starry  eyes,  more  bright 

Than  evening's  proudest  star ; 
Like  purity's  own  halo-light, 
It  seems  to  smile  upon  thy  sight, 

And  says  to  thee  from  far — 

"  Forget-me-not ! " 

Each  dew-drop  on  its  morning  leaves 

Is  eloquent  as  tears, 

That  whisper,  when  young  passion  grieves, 
For  one  beloved  afar,  and  weaves 

His  dream  of  hopes  and  fears — 

"  Forget-me-not !  " 


THE  PILGRIMS. 

[HEY  came — a  life-devoting  band — 

In  winter  o'er  the  sea  ; 
Tearless  they  left  their  fatherland, 

Home  of  their  infancy. 
And  when  they  battled  to  be  free, 
'Twas  not  for  us  and  ours  alone : 
Millions  may  trace  their  destiny 
To  the  wild  beach  they  trod  upon. 

The  brave  on  Bunker's  Hill  who  stood, 

And  fearless  fought  and  died, 
Felt  in  their  veins  the  pilgrims'  blood, 

Their  spirit,  and  their  pride. 
That  day's  last  sunbeam  was  their  last, 

That  well-fought  field  their  death-bed  scene ; 
But  'twas  that  battle's  bugle-blast 

That  bade  the  march  of  mind  begin. 

It  sounded  o'er  the  Atlantic  waves : 

"  One  struggle  more,  and  then 
Hearts  that  are  now  to  tyrants  slaves, 

May  beat  like  hearts  of  men. 


246  THE  PILGRIMS. 

The  pilgrims'  names  may  then  be  heard, 
In  other  tongues  a  battle-word — 

The  gathering  war-cry  of  the  free , 
And  other  nations,  from  their  sleep 
Of  bondage  waking,  long  may  keep, 

Like  us,  the  pilgrims'  jubilee." 


A   FAREWELL  TO   CONNECTICUT. 

TURNED  a  last  look  to  my  dear  native  moun- 
tain, 

As  the  dim  blush  of  sunset  grew  pale  in  the  sky ; 
All  was  still,  save  the  music  that  leaped  from  the  fountain, 
And  the  wave  of  the  woods  to  the  summer-wind's 
sigh. 

Far  around,  the  gray  mist  of  the  twilight  was  stealing, 
And  the  tints  of  the  landscape  had  faded  in  blue, 

Ere  my  pale  lip  could  murmur  the  accents  of  feeling, 
As  it  bade  the  fond  scenes  of  my  childhood  adieu. 

Oh  !  mock  not  that  pang,  for  my  heart  was  retracing 
Past  visions  of  happiness,  sparkling  and  clear : 

My  heart  was  still  warm  with  a  mother's  embracing, 
My  cheek  was  still  wet  with  a  fond  sister's  tear. 

Like  an  infant's  first  sleep  on  the  lap  of  its  mother, 
Were  the  days  of  my  childhood — those*  days  are  no 

more; 

And  my  sorrow's  deep  throb  I  had  struggled  to  smother 
Was  that  infant's  wild  cry  when  it's  first  sleep  was 
o'er. 


248 


A  FAREWELL   TO   CONNECTICUT. 


Years  have  gone  by,  and  remembrance  now  covers, 
With  the  tinge  of  the  moonbeam,  the  thoughts  of 
that  hour ; 

Yet  still  in  his  day-dream  the  wanderer  hovers 
Round  the  cottage  he  left  and  its  green  woven  bower. 

And  Hope  lingers  near  him,  her  wildest  song  breathing, 
And  points  to  a  future  day,  distant  and  dim, 

When  the  finger  of  sunset,  its  eglantine  weaving, 
Shall  brighten  the  home  of  his  childhood  for  him. 


TO  LOUIS  GAYLORD  CLARK,  ESQ. 

I'VE  greeted  many  a  bonny  bride 

On  many  a  bridal  day, 
In  homes  serene  and  summer-skied, 
Where  Love's  spring-buds,  with  joy  and  pride 

Had  blossomed  into  May; 
But  ne'er  on  lovelier  bride  than  thine 
Looked  these  delighted  eyes  of  mine, 
And  ne'er  in  happier  bridal  bower 
Than  hers,  smiled  rose  and  orange-flower 

Through  green  leaves  glad  and  gay, 
When  bridesmaids,  grouped  around  her  room, 
In  youth's,  in  truth's,  in  beauty's  bloom, 
Entwined,  with  merry  fingers  fair, 
Their  garlands  in  her  sunny  hair ; 
Or  bosomed  them,  with  graceful  art, 
Above  the  beatings  of  her  heart. 

I  well  remember,  as  I  stood, 
Among  that  pleasant  multitude, 
A  stranger,  mateless  and  forlorn, 
Pledged  bachelor  and  hermit  sworn, 
That,  when  the  holy  voice  had  given, 
In  consecrated  words  of  power, 


T0  LOUIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 

The  sanction  of  approving  Heaven 

To  marriage-ring,  and  roof,  and  dower ; 
When  she,  a  Wife,  in  matron  pride, 
Stood,  life-devoted,  at  thy  side ; 
When  happy  lips  had  pressed  her  cheek, 

And  happiest  lips  her  "bonny  mou'," 
And  she  had  smiled  with  blushes  meek, 

On  my  congratulating  bow, 
A  sunbeam,  balmy  with  delight, 
Entranced,  subdued  me,  till  I  quite 

Forgot  my  anti-nuptial  vow, 
And  almost  asked,  with  serious  brow 

And  voice  of  true  and  earnest  tone, 
The  bridesmaid  with  the  prettiest  face 
To  take  me,  heart  and  hand,  and  grace 

A  wedding  of  my  own. 

Time's  years,  it  suits  me  not  to  say 

How  many,  since  that  joyous  day, 

Have  watched  and  cheered  thee  on  thy  way 

O'er  Duty's  chosen  path  severe, 
And  seen  thee,  heart  and  thought  full  grown, 
Tread  manhood's  thorns  and  tempters  down, 

And  win,  like  Pythian  charioteer, 
The  wreaths  and  race-cups  of  renown — 
Seen  thee,  thy  name  and  deeds,  enshrined 
Within  the  peerage-book  of  mind — 
And  seen  my  morning  prophecy 
Truth-blazoned  on  a  noonday  sky, 


TO  LOUIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 

That  he,  whose  worth  could  win  a  wife 
Lovely  as  thine,  at  life's  beginning, 

Would  always  wield  the  power,  through  life, 
Of  winning  all  things  worth  the  winning. 

Hark !  there  are  songs  on  Summer's  breeze, 
And  dance  and  song  in  Summer's  trees, 
And  choruses  of  birds  and  bees 

In  Air,  their  world  of  happy  wings ; 
What  far-off  minstrelsy,  whose  tone 
And  words  are  sweeter  than  their  own, 

Has  waked  these  cordial  welcomings  ? 
'Tis  nearer  now,  and  now  more  near, 
And  now  rings  out  like  clarion  clear. 
They  come — the  merry  bells  of  Fame  ! 
They  come — to  glad  me  with  thy  name, 
And  borne  upon  their  music's  sea, 
From  wave  to  wave  melodiously, 
Glad  tidings  bring  of  thine  and  thee. 
They  tell  me  that,  Life's  tasks  well  done, 
Ere  shadows  mark  thy  westering  sun, 
Thy  Bark  has  reached  a  quiet  shore, 
And  rests,  with  slumbering  sail  and  oar, 
Fast  anchored  near  a  cottage  door, 

Thy  home  of  pleasantness  and  peace, 

Of  Love,  with  eyes  of  Heaven's  blue, 
And  Health,  with  cheek  of  rose's  hue, 
And  Riches,  with  "  the  Golden  Fleece :  " 


252  TO  LOUIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 

Where  she,  the  Bride,  a  Mother  now, 

Encircled  round  with  sons  and  daughters, 
Waits  my  congratulary  bow 

To  greet  her  cottage  woods  and  waters ; 
And  thou  art  proving,  as  in  youth, 
By  daily  kindnesses,  the  truth 
And  wisdom  of  the  Scottish  rhyme — 
"  To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 

For  children  and  for  wife, 
Is  the  true  pathos  and  sublime," 

And  green  and  gold  of  Life. 

From  long-neglected  garden-bowers 

Come  these,  my  songs'  memorial  flowers, 

With  greetings  from  my  heart,  they  come 

To  seek  the  shelter  of  thy  home  ; 

Though  faint  their  hues,  and  brief  their  bloom, 

And  all  unmeet  for  gorgeous  room 

Of  "  honor,  love,  obedience, 

And  troops  of  friends,"  like  thine. 
I  hope  thou  wilt  not  banish  thence 

These  few  and  fading  flowers  of  mine, 
But  let  their  theme  be  their  defence, 
The  love,  the  joy,  the  frankincense, 

And  fragrance  o'  LANG  SYNE. 


THE  CROAKERS: 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK  AND  JOSEPH   RODM  A.N  DRAKE 


TO   ENNUI. 

flVAUNT  !  arch-enemy  of  fun, 

Grim  nightmare  of  the  wind ; 
Which  way,  great  Momus !  shall  I  run, 

A  refuge  safe  to  find  ? 
My  puppy's  dead — Miss  Rumor's  breath 

Is  stopped  for  lack  of  news, 
And  Fitza  is  almost  hypped  to  death, 
And  Lang2  has  got  the  blues. 


I've  read  friend  Noah's  book  quite  through, 

Appendix,  notes,  and  all ; 
I've  swallowed  Lady  Morgan's3  too, 

And  blundered  through  De  Stael ; 3 
The  Edinburgh  Review— I've  seen't 

The  last  that  has  been  shipped ; 
I've  read,  in  short,  all  books  in  print, 

And  some  in  manuscript. 


256  TO  ENNUI. 

I'm  sick  of  General  Jackson's  toast, 

Canals  are  naught  to  me : 
Nor  do  I  care  who  rules  the  roast, 

Clinton — or  John  Targee  : 
No  stock  in  any  Bank  I  own, 

I  fear  no  Lottery  shark, 
And  if  the  Battery  were  gone, 

Pd  ramble  in  the  Park. 

Let  gilded  Guardsmen4  shake  their  toes. 

Let  Altorf 5  please  the  pit, 
Let  Mister  Hawkins  blow  his  nose 

And  Spooner6  publish  it : 
Insolvent  laws  let  Marshall7  break, 

Let  dying  Baldwin  cavil ; 
And  let  Tenth- Ward  Electors  shake 

Committees  to  the  devil. 

In  vain — for  like  a  cruel  cat 

That  sucks  a  child  to  death, 
Or  like  the  Madagascar  bat 

Who  poisons  with  his  breath, 
The  fiend— the  fiend  is  on  me  still , 

Come,  doctor,  here's  your  pay — 
What  potion,  lotion,  plaster,  pill, 

Will  drive  the  beast  away  ? 

D. 


ON    PRESENTING 

THE   FREEDOM    OF    THE    CITY 
In  a  gold  box  to  a  great  General* 

| HE  Board  is  met — the  names  are  read 

Elate  of  heart,  the  glad  committee 
Declare  the  mighty  man  has  said 

He'll  take  "  the  freedom  of  the  city." 
He  thanks  the  Council,  and  the  Mayor, 
Presents  'em  all  his  humble  service ; 
And  thinks  he's  time  enough  to  spare 
To  sit  an  hour  or  two  with  Jervis.0 

Hurra !  hurra !  prepare  the  room — 

Skaats  ! 10  are  the  ham  and  oysters  come  ? 

Go — make  some  savory  whiskey-punch, 
The  General  takes  it  with  his  lunch ; 

For  a  sick  stomach,  'tis  a  cure  fit, 
And  vastly  useful  in  a  surfeit. 

But  see  !  the  Mayor  is  in  the  chair ; 

The  Council  is  convened  again ; 
And  ranged  in  many  a  circle  fair, 

The  ladies  and  the  gentlemen 


258    FREEDOM  OF  THE  CITY  TO  A  GREAT  GENERAL. 

Sit  mincing,  smiling,  bowing,  talking 

Of  Congress — balls — the  Indian  force — 
Some  think  the  General  will  be  walking, 

And  some  suppose  he'll  ride,  of  course: 
And  some  are  whistling — some  are  humming, 

And  some  are  peering  in  the  Park 
To  try  if  they  can  see  him  coming ; 

And  some  are  half  asleep — when,  hark ! 

« 
A  triumph  on  the  warlike  drum, 

A  heart-uplifting  bugle-strain, 
A  fife's  far  flourish— and  "  They  come !  " 

Rung  from  the  gathered  train. 
Sit  down — the  fun  will  soon  commence — 

Quick,  quick,  your  Honor,  mount  your  place, 
Present  your  loaded  compliments, 

And  fire  a  volley  in  his  face  ! 

They're  at  it  now — great  guns  and  small — 
Squib,  cracker,  cannon,  musketry; 

Dear  General,  though  you  swallow  all, 
I  must  confess  it  sickens  me. 

D. 


THE   SECRET   MINE, 

SPRUNG     AT     A     LATE     SUPPER 

]HE   songs  were   good,  for  Mead  and  Hawkins 

sung  'em, 

The  wine  went  round,  'twas  laughter  all,  and  joke  ; 
When  crack !  the  General  sprung  a  mine  among  'em, 

And  beat  a  safe  retreat  amid  the  smoke : 
As  fall  the  sticks  of  rockets  when  you  fire  'em, 

So  fell  the  Bucktails  at  that  toast  accurst ; 
Looking  like  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram, 
When  the  firm  earth  beneath  their  footsteps  burst. 

Quelled  is  big  Haff  who  oft  has  fire  and  flood  stood, 

More  pallid  grows  the  snowy  cheek  of  Rose, 
Cold  sweats  bedew  the  leathern  hide  of  Bloodgood, 

Deep  sinks  the  concave  of  pug  Edwards'  nose. 
But  see  the  Generals  Colden  and  Bogardus. 

Joy  sits  enthroned  in  each  elated  eye ; 
While  Doyle  and  Mumford  clap  their  fists  as  hard  as 

The  iron  mauls  in  Pearson's  factory. 

The  midnight  conclave  met — good  Johnny  Targee 

Begins,  as  usual,  to  bestow  advice : 
12 


26o  THE  SECRET  MINE. 

"  Declare  the  General  a  fool,  I  charge  ye  ! 

And  swear  the  toast  was  not  his  own  free  choice  ; 
Tell  'em  that  Golden  prompted,  and  maintain  it : 

That  is  the  fact,  I'm  sure,  but  we  can  see   * 
By  sending  Aleck11  down  to  ascertain  it." 

The  hint  was  taken,  and  accordingly 

A  certain  member  had  a  conversation, 

And  asked  a  certain  surgeon  all  about  it : 
Some  folks  assert  he  got  the  information ; 

'Tis  also  said,  he  came  away  without  it. 
Good  people  all !  I'm  up  to  more  than  you  know ; 

But  prudence  frowns,  my  coward  goose-quill  lingers, 
For  fear  that  flint-and-trigger  Doctor  Brunaugh 

Should  slip  a  challenge  in  your  poet's  fingers  ! 

D 


BONY'S   FIGHT. 


"There  was  Captain  Cucumber,  Lieutenant  Tripe,  Ensign  Pattyman 
uid  myself." 

FOOTE. 


|HEN  Bony  fought  his  host  of  foes, 

Heroes  and  generals  arose 
Like  mushrooms  when  he  bade  them  ; 
Europe,  while  trembling  at  his  nod, 
Thought  him  a  sort  of  demi-god, 
So  wondrous  quick  he  made  them. 

But  "  every  dog  must  have  his  day," 
And  Bony's  power  has  passed  away, 

His  track  let  others  follow ; 
Yet  in  that  talent  of  the  Great, 
With  dash  of  goose-quill  to  create, 

Our  Clinton  beats  him  hollow  ! 

Alas !  thou  little  god12  of  war, 
The  proud  effulgence  of  thy  star 

Is  dimmed,  I  fear,  forever, 
Though  bright  thy  buttons  long  have  shined, 
And  still  thy  powdered  hair  behind 

Is  clubbed  so  neat  and  clever. 


262  SONY'S  FIGHT. 

Yet  round  thee  are  assembled  now 
New  chieftains,  all  intent  as  thou 

On  hard  militia  duty : 
Here's  King,13  conspicuous  for  his  hat, 
And  Ferris  Pell,  for  God  knows  what, 

And  Bayard,  for  his  beauty. 


These  are  but  colonels — there  are  hosts 
Of  higher  grades,  like  Banquo's  ghosts, 

Upon  my  sight  advancing ; 
In  truth  they  made  e'en  Jackson  stare, 
When  in  the  Park,  up-tossed  in  air, 

He  saw  their  plumage  dancing. 


Yet  I  should  wrong  them  not  to  name 
Two  Major-Generals,  high  in  fame, 

By  Heaven  !  a  gallant  pair ! 
(They  haven't  any  soldiers  yet, ) 
His  Honor,  General  by  brevet, 

Bogardus,  brevet  Mayor. 


Should  England  dare  to  send  again 
Her  scoundrel  red-coats  o'er  the  main, 

I  fear  some  sad  disaster ; 
Each  soldier  wears  an  epaulette, 
The  Guards  have  turned  a  capering  set, 

And  want  a  dancing-master. 


BONY'S  FIGHT. 


263 


Sam  Swartwout ! l4  where  are  now  thy  Grays  ? 
Oh,  bid  again  their  banner  blaze 

O'er  hearts  and  ranks  unbroken  ! 
Let  drum  and  fife  your  slumbers  break, 
And  bid  the  devil  freely  take 

Your  meadows  at  Hoboken  ! 

H. 


TO   MR.    POTTER,16 

THE    VENTRILOQUIST. 

|  EAR  Sir,  you've  heard  that  Mr.  Robbin16 

Has  brought  in,  without  rhyme  or  reason, 
A  bill  to  send  you  jugglers  hopping ; 
That  bill  will  pass  this  very  season. 
Now,  as  you  lose  your  occupation, 

And  may  perhaps  be  low  in  coffer, 
I  send  for  your  consideration 
The  following  very  liberal  offer : 

Five  hundred  down,  by  way  of  bounty 

Expenses  paid  (as  shall  be  stated), 
Next  April  to  Chenango  County, 

And  there  we'll  have  you  nominated. 
Your  duty'll  be  to  watch  the  tongues 

When  Root's 16  brigade  begins  to  skirmish, 
To  stop  their  speeches  in  their  lungs, 

And  bring  out  such  as  I  shall  furnish. 

Thy  ventriloquial  powers,  my  Potter  ! 
Shall  turn  to  music  every  word, 


TO  MR.  POTTER.  765 

And  make  the  Martling17  Deists  utter 

Harmonious  anthems  to  our  Lord  ; 
Then,  all  their  former  tricks  upsetting, 

To  honey  thou  shalt  change  their  gall, 
For  Sharpe16  shall  vindicate  brevetting, 

And  Root  admire  the  great  canal. 

It  will  be  pleasant,  too,  to  hear  a 

Decent  speech  among  our  swains ; 
We  almost  had  begun  to  fear  a 

Famine  for  the  dearth  of  brains. 
No  more  their  tongues  shall  play  the  devil, 

Thy  potent  art  the  fault  prevents ; 
Now  German16  shall,  for  once,  be  civil, 

And  Bacon 1B  speak  with  common-sense. 

Poor  German's  head  is  but  a  leaker ; 

Should  yours  be  found  compact  and  close, 
As  you're  to  be  the  only  speaker, 

We'll  make  you  SPEAKER  of  the  House. 
If  you're  in  haste  to  "touch  the  siller," 

Dispatch  me  your  acceptance  merely, 
And  call  on  trusty  Mr.  Miller,18 

He'll  pay  the  cash — Sir,  yours  sincerely, 

D. 


TO   MR.    SIMPSON, 

MANAGER    OF    THE    PARK    THEATRE. 

|'M  a  friend  to  your  theatre,  oft  have  I  told  you, 

And  a  still  warmer  friend,  Mr.  Simpson,  to  you ; 
And  it  gives  me  great  pain,  be  assured,  to  behold  you 

Go  fast  to  the  devil,  as  lately  you  do. 
We  scarcely  should  know  you  were  still  in  existence, 

Were  it  not  for  the  play-bills  one  sees  in  Broadway; 
The  newspapers  all  seem  to  keep  at  a  distance ; 
Have  your  puffers  deserted  for  want  of  their  pay  ? 

Poor  Woodworth ! 19  his  Chronicle  died  broken-hearted; 

What  a  loss  to  the  drama,  the  world,  and  the  age  ! 
And  Coleman20  is  silent  since  Philipps  departed, 

And  Noah's  too  busy  to  think  of  the  stage. 
Now,  the  aim  of  this  letter  is  merely  to  mention 

That,  since  all  your  critics  are  laid  on  the  shelf, 
Out  of  pure  love  for  you,  it  is  my  kind  intention 

To  take  box  No.  3,  and  turn  critic  myself. 

Your  ladies  are  safe — if  you  please  you  may  say  it, 
Perhaps  they  have  faults,  but  I'll  let  them  alone ; 


TO  MR.   SIMPSON.  26; 

Yet  I  owe  two  a  debt — 'tis  my  duty  to  pay  it — 
Of  them  I  must  speak  in  a  kind,  friendly  tone. 

Mrs.  Barnes21 — Shakespeare's  heart  would  have  beat 

had  he  seen  her — 
Her  magic  has  drawn  from  me  many  a  tear, 

And  ne'er  shall  my  pen  or  its  satire  chagrin  her, 
While  pathos,  and  genius,  and  feeling  are  dear. 

And  there's  sweet  Miss  Leesugg,22  by-the-bye,  she's  not 

pretty, 

She's  a  little  too  large,  and  has  not  too  much  grace, 
Yet,  there's  something  about  her  so  witching  and  witty, 

'Tis  pleasure  to  gaze  on  her  good-humored  face. 
But  as  for  your  men — I  don't  mean  to  be  surly, 

Of  praise  that  they  merit  they'll  each  have  his  Share ; 
For  the  present,  there's  Olliff,23  a  famous  Lord  Bur- 

leigh, 
And  Hopper  and  Maywood,  a  promising  pair. 

H, 


THE  NATIONAL  PAINTING.24 

[WAKE  !  ye  forms  of  verse  divine  ; 

Painting  !  descend  on  canvas  wing, 
And  hover  o'er  my  head,  Design  ! 

Your  son,  your  glorious  son,  I  sing ! 
At  Trumbull's  name,  I  break  my  sloth, 

To  load  him  with  poetic  riches ; 
The  Titian  of  a  table-cloth  ! 
The  Guido  of  a  pair  of  breeches  ! 

Come,  star-eyed  maid,  Equality  ! 

In  thine  adorer's  praise  I  revel ; 
Who  brings,  so  fierce  his  love  to  thee, 

All  forms  and  faces  to  a  level : 
Old,  young,  great,  small,  the  grave,  the  gay, 

Each  man  might  swear  the  next  his  brother, 
And  there  they  stand  in  dread  array, 

To  fire  their  votes  at  one  another. 

How  bright  their  buttons  shine  !  how  straight 
Their  coat-flaps  fall  in  plaited  grace  ! 

How  smooth  the  hair  on  every  pate  ! 
How  vacant  each  immortal  face  ! 


THE  NATIONAL  PAINTING.  269 

And  then  the  tints,  the  shade,  the  flush, 
(I  wrong  them  with  a  strain  too  humble,) 

Not  mighty  Sherred's25  strength  of  brush 
Can  match  thy  glowing  hues,  my  Trumbull ! 

Go  on,  great  painter !  dare  be  dull — 

No  longer  after  Nature  dangle ; 
Call  Rectilinear  beautiful ; 

Find  grace  and  freedom  in  an  angle : 
Pour  on  the  red,  the  green,  the  yellow, 

"  Paint  till  a  horse  may  mire  upon  it," 
And  while  I've  strength  to  write  or  bellow, 

I'll  sound  your  praises  in  a  sonnet. 

D. 


THE  BATTERY  WAR.28 


"  Twice  twenty  shoe-boys,  twice  two  dozen  guards,   0 
Chairmen  and 'porters,  hackney-coachmen,  dandies  !  " 

TOM  THUMB. 


|ERE,  Dickens ! — go  fetch  my  great-coat  and 

umbrella, 

Tell  Johnny  and  Robert  to  put  on  their  shoes ; 
And  Dickens — take  something  to  drink,  my  good  fellow, 
You  may  go  with  Tom  Ostler,  along,  if  you  choose : 
You  must  put  your  new  coat  on,  but  mind  and  be  quiet, 
Till  my  clerk,  Mr.  Scribble,  shall  tip  you  the  wink ; 
Then,  roar  like  the  devil — hiss — kick  up  a  riot ! 
I  imagine  we'll  settle  the  thing  in  a  twink." 

Arrived  at  the  Hall,  they  were  nothing  too  early ; 

Little  Hartman  was  placed,  like  King  Log,  in  the  chair, 
Supported,  for  contrast,  by  modest  King  Charlie ; 
.  The  General  was  speaking,  who  is  to, be  Mayor: 
Undaunted  he  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  bobbery, 

Clerks,  footmen,  and  dandies — ye  gods  !  what  a  noise  ! 
No  thief  in  Fly-Market,  just  caught  in  a  robbery, 

Could  raise  such  a  clatter  of  blackguards  and  boys. 


THE  BATTERY  WAR.  27 1 

Mercein  and  Bogardus  each  told  a  long  story, 

Very  fine,  without  doubt,  to  such  folks  as  could  hear ; 
Then  the  two  kings  resigned,  and  in  high  gig  and  glory 

The  light-footed  chief  of  the  Guards  took  the  chair  : 
So  he  made  them  a  speech,  about  little  or  nothing, 

Except  he  advised  them  to  go  home  to  bed ; 
And  the  simple  fact  is,  that,  in  spite  of  their  mouthing, 

'Twas  the  only  good,  sensible  thing  that  was  said. 

By-the-way,  though,  we've  heard  that  these  sons  of  sedi- 
tion, 

These  vile  Bonapartes  (to  quote  Jemmy  Lent), 
Are  about  to  bring  forward  a  second  edition, 
And  Squire  McGareaghan  fears  the  event. 
Now  to  let  our  wise  Council  their  honest  game  play  on 

yet, 

Just  call  out,  your  Honor,  the  Gingerbread  Guards, 

Bid  them  drive  at  the  traitors  with  cutlass  and  bayonet, 

And  then  pick  their  pockets  as  bare — as  your  bard's. 

D. 


TO   CROAKER,  JUNIOR. 

JOUR  hand,  my  dear  Junior !  we're  all  in  a  flame 

To  see  a  few  more  of  your  flashes ; 
The  Croakers  forever !  I'm  proud  of  the  name — 
But,  brother,  I  fear,  though  our  cause  is  the  same, 
We  shall  quarrel  like  Brutus  and  Cassius. 

But  why  should  we  do  so  ?  'tis  false  what  they  tell 

That  poets  can  never  be  cronies ; 
Unbuckle  your  harness,  in  peace  let  us  dwell ; 
Our  goose-quills  will  canter  together  as  well 

As  a  pair  of  Prime27  mouse-colored  ponies. 

Once  blended  in  spirit,  we'll  make  our  appeal, 

And  by  law  be  incorporate  too ; 
Apply  for  a  charter  in  crackers  to  deal ; 
A  fly-flapper  rampant  shall  shine  on  our  seal, 

And  the  firm  shall  be  "  Croaker  &  Co." 

Fun  !  prosper  the  union — smile,  Fate,  on  its  birth  ! 

Miss  Atropos,  shut  up  your  scissors ; 
Together  we'll  range  through  the  regions  of  mirth, 
A  pair  of  bright  Gemini  dropped  on  the  earth, 

The  Castor  and  Pollux  of  quizzers. 

D. 


[MR.  EDITOR  :  I  wish  you  to  precede  the  lines  I  send  you  enclosed,  by 
republishing  Mr.  Hamilton's  late  letter  to  the  Governor  verbatim,  in  order 
that  the  world  may  see  that,  on  this  occasion,  at  least,  the  poet  does  not 
deal  in  fiction.] 

"To  De  Witt  Clinton,  Governor  of  the  State  of  New  York. 

"  SIR  :  To  your  shame  and  confusion  let  it  be  recorded,  that  you  dare 
not  assume  the  responsibility  of  preserving  to  our  national  councils  a  pa- 
triotic and  distinguished  statesman,  while  you  could  advocate  the  publica- 
tion of  an  insidious  and  base  attack  upon  private  character  through  the 
public  organ  of  yoijr  administration. 

"  You  know  the  motive  of  my  visit  to  Mr.  Root — you  were  not  ignorant 
that  the  senatorial  reelection  of  Rufus  King28  was  to  me  a  subject  of  deep 
personal  concern ;  and  on  this  occasion  you  declared  that  you  had  marked  my 
course,  and  that  this  support  should  recoil  with  vengeance  upon  the  Repub- 
lican party.  To  those  intimate  with  your  pusillanimity  and  intrigues,  you 
disappoint  no  expectation.  The  traducer  of  America's  brightest  ornaments 
can  only  be  consistent  within  the  sphere  of  his  degeneracy.  It  is  the  pride 
of  the  name  I  bear,  to  be  distinguished  by  your  envenomed  malignity — one 
and  all,  we  are  opposed  to  your  administration  and  your  character.  I  am  in- 
duced to  make  this  explanation  as  a  permanent  obligation  to  the  public ;  to 
my  own  feelings  it  is  perfectly  humiliating.  I  have  the  honor  -to  remain, 

"Your  obedient  servant,  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON.29 

"ASSEMBLY  CHAMBER,  March  Zth,  1819." 


A  VERY   MODEST   LETTER  FROM   ONE 
GREAT  MAN   TO   ANOTHER. 


"  To  be  a  well-favored  man  is  the  gift  of  fortune,  but  to  write  and  read 
:omes  by  nature."  DOGBERRY. 


dare  you,  Sir,  presume  to  say, 
And  write  and  print  the  paltry  thing, 
That  I  did  wrong  the  other  day 
To  give  my  vote  for  Mr.  King  ? 


274  A   MODEST  LETTER. 

'Twas  natural  that  I  should  take  a 

Particular  interest  in  it,  Sir, 
For  I've  been  agent  at  Jamaica, 

And  he  a  foreign  minister. 

You  say  you've  marked  my  course  of  late, 
And  mean  to  make  what  I've  been  doing 

A  means  of  breaking  up  the  State, 
And  bringing  on  our  party's  ruin. 

With  all  who've  known  your  scoundrel  tricks, 
Since  first  you  came  to  curse  the  nation, 

The  Lucifer  of  politics, 

"  You  disappoint  no  expectation." 


It  suits  your  mean  and  grovelling  spirit 
Thus  to  attack  great  men  like  me ; 

You  slander  only  chiefs  of  merit, 
Stars  in  our  country's  galaxy  ! 

Elijah,  when  his  task  was  done, 
His  mantle  o'er  Elisha  threw ; 

Now  I'm  my  father's  eldest  son, 
And  heir  to  all  his  talents  too. 

We're  proud  to  say,  the  world  well  knows 
You  never  liked  our  family ; 


A   MODEST  LETTER.  2 

We,  "one  and  all,"  have  been  your  foes, 
My  brother  Jim,  and  John,  and  I. 

For  my  own  sake,  you  well  may  wonder 

That  I  these  lines  to  you  have  sent ; 
It  is  to  lay  the  public  under 

An  ( '  obligation  perhianent. " 

ASSEMBLY  CHAMBER,  March  %th. 

Done  Into  English  and  verse  by  H. 


TO  THE  SURGEON-GENERAL30  OF  THE 
STATE  OF  NEW  YORK. 


"  Why,  Tom  !  he  knows  all  things.     An  it  be  not  the  devil  himself,  we 
may  thank  God."        .  VILLAGE  WIZARD. 


|H  !  Mitchill,  lord  of  granite  flints, 

Doctu.s  in  law — and  wholesome  dishes ; 
Protector  of  the  patent  splints, 

The  foe  of  whales — the  friend  of  fishes, 
"  Tom  Codus,"— "  Septon  "  "  Phlogobombas  !  " 

What  title  shall  we  find  to  fit  you  ? 
Inquisitor  of  sprats  and  compost, 
Or  Surgeon-General  of  militia  ! 


We  hail  thee — mammoth  of  the  State  ! 

Steam  frigate  on  the  waves  of  physic  ! 
Equal  in  practice  or  debate, 

To  cure  the  nation  or  the  phthisic ; 
The  amateur  of  Tartar  dogs, 

Wheat-flies,  and  maggots  that  create  'em  ! 
Of  mummies,  and  of  mummy  chogs  1 

Of  brickbats,  lotteries,  and  pomatum  ! 


TO  THE  SURGEON-GENERAL   OF  NEW  YORK.     277 

It  matters  not  how  low  or  high  it  is, 

Thou  knowest  each  hill  and  vale  of  knowledge ; 
Fellow  of  forty-nine  societies, 

And  lecturer  in  Hosack's  College. 
And  when  thou  diest,  for  life  is  brief, 

Thy  name,  in  all  its  gathered  glory, 
Shall  shine,  immortal,  as  the  leaf 

Of  Delaplaine's  Repository  ! 31 

D. 


TO  JOHN   MINSHULL,  ESQ.,82 

POET    AND    PLAYWRIGHT  :    FORMERLY    OF    MAIDEN    LANE,    BUT    NOW 
ABSENT    IN    EUROPE. 

|H  1  bard  of  the  West,  hasten  back  from  Great 

Britain, 

Our  harp-strings  are  silent,  they  droop  on  the  tree; 
What  poet  among  us  is  worthy  to  sit  in 

The  chair  whose  fair  cushion  was  hallowed  by  thee  ? 
In  vain  the  wild  clouds  o'er  our  mountain-tops  hover, 

Our  rivers  flow  sadly,  our  groves  are  bereft ; 
They  have  lost,  and  forever,  their  poet,  their  lover ! 
And  Woodworth  and  Paulding  are  all  we  have  left. 

Great  Woodworth,  the  champion  of  Buckets  and  Free- 
dom, 

Thou  editor,  author,  and  critic  to  boot, 
I  must  leave  thy  rich  volumes  to  those  that  can  read  'em, 

For  my  part  I  never  had  patience  to  do't. 
And  as  for  poor  Upham  (who  in  a  fine  huff  says 

He'll  yield  to  no  Briton  the  laurel  of  wit), 
Alas  !  they  have  "stolen  his  ideas,"  as  Puff  says, 

I  had  read  all  his  verses  before  they  were  writ. 


TO  JOHN  MINSHULL,  ESQ. 


279 


But  hail  to  thee,  Paulding,  the  pride  of  the  Backwood ! 

The  poet  of  cabbages,33  log  huts,  and  gin, 
God  forbid  thou  shouldst  get  in  the  clutches  of  Black- 
wood  I 

Oh,  Lord !  how  the  wits  of  old  England  would  grin  ! 
In  pathos,  oh  !  who  could  be  flatter  or  funnier  ? 

Were  ever  descriptions  more  vulgar  and  tame  ? 
I  wronged  thee,  by  Heaven  !  when  I  said  there  were 

none  here 

Could  cope  with  great  Minshull,  thou  peer  of  his  fame ! 

D. 


THE  MAN   WHO   FRETS  AT  WORLDLY 
STRIFE. 


'  A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  way, 
A  sad  one  tires  in  a  mile-a." 

WINTER'S  TALE. 


JHE  man  who  frets  at  worldly  strife, 

Grows  sallow,  sour,  and  thin  ; 
Give  us  the  lad  whose  happy  life 

Is  one  perpetual  grin ; 
He,  Midas-like,  turns  all  to  gold, 

He  smiles  when  others  sigh, 
Enjoys  alike  the  hot  and  cold, 
And  laughs  through  wet  and  dry. 

There's  fun  in  every  thing  we  meet, 

The  greatest,  worst,  and  best, 
Existence  is  a  merry  treat, 

And  every  speech  a  jest : 
Be't  ours  to  watch  the  crowds  that  pass 

Where  Mirth's  gay  banner  waves ; 
To  show  fools  through  a  quizzing-glass, 

And  basrinade  the  knaves. 


THE  MAN  WHO  FRETS.  28l 

The  serious  world  will  scold  and  ban, 

In  clamor  loud  and  hard, 
To  hear  Meigs  called  a  Congressman, 

And  Paulding  styled  a  bard ; 
But,  come  what  may,  the  man's  in  luck 

Who  turns  it  all  to  glee, 
And  laughing,  cries,  with  honest  Puck, 

"  Great  Lord  !  what  fools  ye  be." 

D. 


TO  E.    SIMPSON,   ESQ., 

ON    WITNESSING    THE    REPRESENTATION    OF    THE    NEW   TRAGEDY 
OF    BRUTUS. 

HAVE  been  every  night,  whether  empty  or 

crowded, 

And  taken  my  seat  in  your  Box  No.  3  ; 
In  a  sort  of  poetical  Scotch  mist  I'm  shrouded, 
As  the  far-famed  Invisible  Girl  used  to  be. 

As  a  critic  professed,  'tis  my  province  to  flout  you, 
And  hiss  as  they  did  at  poor  Charley's34  Macheath  ; 

But  all  is  so  right  and  so  proper  about  you, 

That  I'm  forced  to  be  civil  in  spite  of  my  teeth. 

In  your  dresses  and  scenery,  classic  and  clever ; 

Such  invention !  such  blending  of  old  things  and  new ! 
Let  Kemble's  proud  laurels  be  withered  forever  ! 

Wear  the  wreath,  my  dear  Simpson,  'tis  fairly  your 
due. 

How  apropos  now  was  that  street  scene  in  Brutus, 
Where  the  sign  "Coffee-House"  in  plain  English 
was  writ ! 


TO  E.  SIMPSON,  ESQ.  283 

By-the-way,  "  Billy  Niblo's" 35  would  much  better  suit 

us, 
And  box,  pit,  and  gallery,  roar  at  the  wit. 

How  sparkled  the  eyes  of  the  raptured  beholders, 
To  see  Kilner,36  a  Roman,  in  robes  "  a  la  Grec  !  " 

How  graceful  they  flowed  o'er  his  neatly-turned  shoul- 
ders! 
How  completely  they  set  off  his  Johnny-Bull  neck ! 

But  to  hint  at  the  thousand  fine  things  that  amuse  me, 
Would  take  me  a  month — so  adieu  till  my  next.  • 

And  your  actors,  they  must  for  the  present  excuse  me ; 
One  word  though,  en  passant,  for  fear  they'll  be  vexed. 

Moreland,  Howard,  and  Garner,  the  last  importation  ! 

Three  feathers  as  bright  as  the  Prince  Regent's  plume ! 
Though  puffing  is,  certainly,  not  my  vocation, 

I  always  shall  praise  them,  whenever  I've  room. 

With  manners  so  formed  to  persuade  and  to  win  you, 
With  faces  one  need  but  to  look  on  to  love, 

They're  like  Jefferson's  "  Natural  Bridge"  in  Virginia— 
"  Worth  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic"  by  Jove  ! 

H. 
13 


TO  JOHN   LANG,   ESQ.37 

|E'VE  twined  the  wreath  of  honor 
Round  Doctor  Mitchill's  brow  ; 
Though  bold  and  daring  was  the  theme, 

A  loftier  waits  us  now. 
In  thee,  immortal  Lang !  have  all 

The  Sister  Graces  met, 
Thou  Statesman — Sage — and  Editor 
Of  the  New- York  Gazette  ! 

A  second  Faustus  in  thine  art ! 

The  Newton  of  our  clime ! 
The  Bonaparte  of  Bulletins  ! 

The  Johnson  of  thy  time  I — 
At  thy  dread  name,  the  terriers  bark, 

The  rats  fly  to  their  holes  ! 
Thou  Prince  of  "Petty  Paragraphs," 

11  Red  Notes,"  and  "  Signal-Poles  !  " 

There's  genius  in  thy  speaking  face, 
There's  greatness  in  thine  air ; 

Take  Franklin's  Bust  from  off  thy  roof, 
And  place  thine  own  head  there ! 


TO  JOHN  LANG,   ESQ., 

Eight  corners  within  pistol-shot 
Long  with  thy  fame  have  rang, 

And  bluebirds  sung  and  mad  cows  lowed 
The  name  of  Johnny  Lang ! 


285 


H. 


TO   DOMESTIC   PEACE. 

"  Malbrook  s'en  va-t-en  guerre." 

|H,  Peace  !  ascend  again  thy  throne, 

Resume  the  spotless  olive-leaf, 
Display  thy  snowy  muslin  gown, 
And  wave  o'er  this  distracted  town 
Thy  cambric  pocket-handkerchief! 

Or,  if  thou  dost  not  like  the  dress 

(We  own  we  have  our  doubts  upon  it), 

Come  like  some  pretty  Quakeress, 

And  let  thine  orbs  of  quietness 
Shine,  dove-like,  from  a  satin  bonnet ! 

We  need  thee,  row-abhorring  maid  ! 

The  dogs  of  party  bark  alarms, 
And  e'er  the  Battery  tax  is  laid, 
And  e'er  the  next  election's  made, 

E'en  Murray's  Guards  will  rush  to  arms 

Feds,  Goodies,  Bucktails, s8  all  in  flame, 
With  peals  of  nonsense  frighten  thee ; 


TO  DOMESTIC  PEACE.  28; 

Sweet  Peace  !  thou  wert  not  much  to  blame, 
If  thou  shouldst  loathe  the  very  name 
Of  Clinton,  or  of  John  Targee. 

For  us,  enthroned  in  elbow-chair, 
Thy  foes  alone-  with  ink  we  sprinkle ; 

We  love  to  smooth  the  cheek  of  care, 

Until  we  leave  no  furrow  there, 
Save  laughter's  evanescent  wrinkle. 

With  thee  and  mirth,  we'll  quit  the  throng — 

Each  hour  shall  see  our  pleasures  vary ; 
Jarvis  shall  bring  his  Cats  along, 
And  Lynch  shall  float  in  floods  of  song 
Pure  as  his  highest-priced  Madeira ! 

D. 


TO   E.    SIMPSON,  ESQ., 

MANAGER    OF    THE    NEW- YORK    THEATRE. 

|R.   PHILIPPS  has  gone— and  he  carries  away 

with  him 

Much  of  my  cash,  and  my  hearty  good-will ; 
To  both  he  is  welcome,  and  long  may  they  stay  with 

him — 
Poor  as  he's  made  me,  I'll  cherish  him  still. 

For  when  the  wild  spell  of  his  melody  bound  me, 
I  marked  not  the  flight  of  the  gay,  happy  hours ; 

His  music  created  a  fairy-land  round  me ; 
Above  it,  was  sunshine — below  it,  were  flowers. 

But  'tis  folly  to  weep — we  must  cease  to  regret  him  ; 

Look  about — you  have  many  as  brilliant  a  star : 
There's  Barnes39  (you  may  laugh  if  you  will),  but  just 
let  him 

Play  Belino  for  once ; — he'll  beat  Philipps  by  far  ! 

When  he  sings  "Love's  Young  Dream"  every  heart 

will  be  beating, 
The  ladies  shall  wave  their  white  kerchiefs  in  air ; 


TO  E.   SIMPSON,  ESQ.  289 

The  peals  of  applauses  shall  hail  the  repeating 
Of  his  "  Eveleerfs  Bower,"  and  his  "  Robin  Adair  !  " 

Fancy's  sketch !  such  fine  shakes  and  such  comic  ex- 
pression 

He'll  give  it ;  'twill  put  all  the  fiddles  in  tone  ! 
And  let  Olliff  (clean  shaved,  with  a  new  hero  dress  on) 

Play  Baron  Toraldijfrr  that  night  alone. 

If  you  wish  to  give  all  your  acquaintance  delight, 
Fill  your  house  to  the  brim,  take  this  hint — it  will 
go; 

The  humor  will  make  e'en  your  candles  burn  bright, 
And  crowd  every  seat,  to  the  very  fourth  row. 

Besides,  entre-nous,  there's  another  good  reason — 
Perhaps  'twill  the  proud  heart  of  Beekman  beguile ; 

He  may  promise  to  lower  your  rent  the  next  season, 
And,  for  once  in  his  life, — take  his  hat  off  and  smile. 

H. 


TO   CAPTAIN   SEAMAN   WEEKS, 

CHAIRMAN    OF    THE    TENTH    WARD    INDEPENDENT    ELECTORS.40 

|APTAIN  WEEKS,  your  right  hand— though  I 

never  have  seen  it, 
I  shake  it  on  paper,  full  ten  times  a  day : 
I  love  your  Tenth  Ward,  and  I  wish  I  lived  in  it ; 

Do  you  know  any  house  there  to  let  against  May  ? 
I  don't  mind  what  the  rent  is,  so  long  as  I  get  off 
From  these  party-mad  beings,  these  tongues  without 

heads ! 

I'm  ashamed  to  be  seen,  sir,  among  such  a  set  of 
Clintonians,  Tammanies,  Goodies,  and  Feds  ! 

Besides,  I  am  nervous,  and  can't  bear  the  racket 

These  gentlemen  make  when  they're  begging  for 

votes ; 
There's  John  Haff,  and  Ben  Bailly,  and  Christian,  and 

Bracket, 
Only  think  what  fine  music  must  come  from  their 

throats ! 
Colonel  Warner  calls  Clinton  a  "star  in  the  banner," 

Mapes  swears  by  his  sword-knot  he'll  ruin  us  all ; 
While  Meigs  flashes  out  in  his  fine  classic  manner, 
"  The  meteor  Gorgon  of  Clinton  must  fall !  " 


TO   CAPTAIN  SEAMAN  WEEKS.  29 1 

In  vain  I  endeavor  to  give  them  a  hint  on 

Sense,  reason,  or  temper — they  laugh  at  it  all ;   • 
For  sense  is  nonsense  when  it  makes  against  Clinton, 

And  reason  is  treason  in  Tammany  Hall. 
So  I  mean  (though  I  fear  I  shall  seem  unto  some  a 

Strange,  obstinate,  odd-headed  kind  of  an  elf) 
To  strike  my  old  tent  in  the  Fourth,  and  become  a 

"  Tenth  Ward  independent  elector  "  myself. 

D. 


ABSTRACT  OF  THE  SURGEON-GENERAL'S 
REPORT.41 

|  HE  Surgeon-General  by  brevet, 

With  zeal  for  public  service  burning, 
Thinks  this  a  happy  time  to  get 

Another  chance  to  show  his  learning ; 
He  has  in  consequence  collected 

His  wits,  and  stewed  them  in  retorts ; 
By  distillation  thus  perfected, 
He  hopes  to  shine,  and  so  reports 

That  he  has  searched  authorities 

From  Johnson  down  to  Ashe  and  Shelley, 
And  finds  that  a  militia  is 

What  he  is  now  about  to  tell  ye : 
Militia  means — such  citizens 

As  e'en  in  peace  are  kept  campaigning— 
The  gallant  souls  that  shoulder  guns, 

And,  twice  a  year,  go  out  a-training  ! 

This  point  being  fixed,  we  must,  I  think,  sir, 

Proceed  unto  the  second  part, 
Entitled  Grog— a  kind  of  drink,  sir, 

Which,  by  its  action  on  the  heart, 
Makes  men  so  brave,  they  dare  attack 
•     A  bastion  at  its  angle  salient ; 


ABSTRACT,  ETC.  293 

This  is  a  well-established  fact — 

The  very  proverb  says—pof-valiant. 

Grog— I'll  define  it  in  a  minute — 

Take  gin,  rum,  whiskey,  or  peach-brandy, 
Put  but  a  little  water  in  it, 

And  that  is  Grog — now  understand  me, 
I  mean  to  say,  that  should  the  spirit 

Be  left  out  by  some  careless  dog, 
It  is — I  wish  the  world  may  hear  it ! 

It  is  plain  water,  and  not  Grog. 

Having  precisely  fixed  what  Grog  is 

(My  reasoning,  sir,  that  question  settles  !), 
We  next  must  ascertain  what  Prog  is — 

Now  Prog,  in  vulgar  phrase,  is  victuals : 
This  will  embrace  all  kinds  of  food, 

Which  on  the  smoking  board  can  charm  ye, 
And  by  digestion  furnish  blood, 

A  thing  essential  in  an  army  ! 

These  things  should  all  be  swallowed* warm, 

For  heat,  digestion  much  facilitates ; 
Cold  is  a  tonic,  and  does  harm ; 

A  tonic  always,  sir,  debilitates. 
My  plan  then  is  to  raise,  as  fast 

As  possible,  a  corps  of  cooks, 
And  drill  them  daily  from  the  last 

Editions  of  your  cookery-books  ! 

Done  into  English  and  likewise  into  verse  by  H.  AND  D. 


TO   AN   ELDERLY   COQUETTE 


;  Parcius  junctas  quatiunt  fenestras." 

HORACE,  Book  i.,  Ode  25. 


|H,  Chloe  !  no  more  at  each  party  and  ball 

You  shine  the  gay  queen  of  the  hour, 
The  lip,  that  alluringly  smiled  upon  all, 
Finds  none  to  acknowledge  its  power ; 
No  longer  the  hearts  of  the  dandies  you  break, 

No  poet  adores  you  in  numbers ; 
No  billets-doux  sweeten,  nor  serenades  wake 
The  peaceful  repose  of  your  slumbers. 

Dissipation  has  clouded  those  eloquent  eyes, 

That  sparkled  like  gems  of  the  ocean ; 
Thy  bosom  is  fair — but  its  billowy  rise 

Awakens  no  kindred  commotion : 
And  pale  are  those  rubies  of  rapture,  where  Love 

Had  showered  his  sweetest  of  blisses ; 
And  the  wrinkles  which  Time  has  implanted  above, 

Are  covered  in  vain  with  false  tresses. 

The  autumn  is  on  thee— fell  Scandal  prepares 
To  hasten  the  wane  of  thy  glory ; 


TO  AN  ELDERLY  COQUETTE. 


295 


Too  soon  Disappointment  will  hand  thee  down-stairs, 
And  old  maidenhood  end  the  sad  story : 

For  me — long  escaped  from  your  trammels — I  choose 
To  enlist  in  the  new  corps  of  jokers ; 

Abandoning  Chloe,  I  kneel  to  the  Muse, 
And,  instead  of  love-ditties,  write  Croakers. 

D. 


TO  *  *  *  *,  ESQUIRE. 

|OME,  shut  up  your  Blackstone*,  and  sparkle  again 

The  leader  and  light  of  our  classical  revels ; 
While  statues  and  cases  bewilder  your  brain, 

No  wonder  you're  vexed  and  beset  with  blue  devils : 
But  a  change  in  your  diet  will  banish  the  blues ; 

Then  come,  my  old  chum,  to  our  banquet  sublime ; 
Our  wine  shall  be  caught  from  the  lips  of  the  Muse, 
And  each  plate  and  tureen  shall  be  hallowed  in  rhyme. 

"Scott,  from  old  Albin,  shall  furnish  the  dishes 

With  wild-fowl  and  ven'son  that  none  can  surpass ; 
And  Mitchill,  who  sung  the  amours  of  the  fishes, 

Shall  fetch  his  most  exquisite  tomcod  and  bass. 
Leigh  Hunt  shall  select,  at  his  Hampstead  Parnassus, 

Fine  greens,  from  the  hot-bed,  the  table  to  cheer ; 
And  Wordsworth  shall  bring  us  whole  bowls  of  molasses 

Diluted  with  water  from  sweet  Windermere. 

To  rouse  the  dull  fancy  and  give  us  an  appetite. 

Black  wormwood  bitters  Lord  Byron  shall  bear, 
And  Montgomery  bring  (to  consumptives  a  happy  sight) 
.     Tepid  soup-meagre  and  "  1'eau  capillaire ;  " 


TO  *  *,  ESQ.  297 

George  Coleman  shall  sparkle  in  old  bottled  cider, 
Roast-beef  and  potatoes  friend  Crabbe  will  supply ; 

Rogers  shall  hash  us  an  "olla  podrida," 
And  the  best  of  fresh  "  cabbage  "  from  Paulding  we'll 
buy. 

Mr.  Tennant — free>  fanciful,  laughing,  and  lofty, 

Shall  pour  out  Tokay  and  Scotch  whiskey  like  rain  ; 
Southey  shall  sober  our  spirits  with  coffee, 

And  Horace  in  London  "  flash  up  in  champagne." 
Tom  Campbell  shall  cheer  us  with  rosy  Madeira, 

Refined  by  long  keeping,  rich,  sparkling,  and  pure  ; 
And  Moore,  "pourchasse  cafe,"  to  each  one  shall  bear  a 

Sip-witching  bumper  of  parfait  amour. 

Then  come  to  our  banquet —oh  !  how  can  you  pause 

A  moment  between  merry  rhyme  and  dull  reason  ? 
Preferring  the  wit-blighting  " Spirit  of  Laws" 

To  the  spirit  of  verse,  is  poetical  treason ! 
Judge  Phoebus  will  certainly  issue  his  writ, 

No  quirk  or  evasion  your  cause  can  make  good,  man  ; 
Only  think  what  you'll  suffer,  when  sentenced  to  sit 

And  be  kept  broad  awake  till  you've  read  the  Back- 
woodsman ! 

D. 


ODE  TO   IMPUDENCE. 


"  Integer  vitae,  scelerisque  purus." 

HORACE,  Book  i.,  Ode  22. 


| HE  man  who  wears  a  brazen  face, 

Quite  a  son  aise  his  glass  may  quaff; 
And  whether  in  or  out  of  place, 
May  twirl  his  stick,  and  laugh. 
Useless  to  him  the  broad  doubloon, 

Red  note,  or  dollar  of  the  mill ; 

Though  all  his  gold  be  in  the  moon, 

His  brass  is  current  money  still. 

Thus,  when  my  cash  was  at  low  water, 
.  At  Niblo's  I  sat  down  to  dine ; 
And  after  a  tremendous  slaughter 

Among  the  wild-fowl  and  the  wine, 
The  bill  before  mine  eyes  was  placed — 

When,  slightly  turning  round  my  head, 
"  Charge  it"  cried  I — the  man  amazed, 

Stared,  made  his  conge,  and  obeyed. 

Oh !  bear  me  to  some  forest  thick, 
Where  wampumed  Choctaws  prowl  alone, 


ODE  TO  IMPUDENCE. 

Where  ne'er  was  heard  the  name  of  tick, 
And  bankrupt  laws  are  quite  unknown ; 

Or  to  some  shop,  by  bucks  abhorred, 
Where  to  the  longing  pauper's  sorrow, 

The  cursed  inscription  decks  the  board 
Of  "Pay  to-day  and  trust  to-morrow." 

Or  plunge  me  in  the  dungeon-tower ; 

With  bolts  and  turnkeys  dim  mine  eyes ; 
While,  called  from  death  by  Marshall's  power, 

The  ghosts  of  murdered  debts  arise ! 
The  easy  dupes  I'll  wheedle  still, 

With  looks  of  brass  and  words  of  honey ; 
And  having  scored  a  decent  bill, 

Pay  off  my  impudence  for  money. 

D. 


TO   MRS.   BARNES, 

THE    ACTRESS. 

|  EAR  Ma'am— we  seldom  take  the  pen 

To  praise,  for  whim  and  jest  our  trade  is  • 
We're  used  to  deal  with  gentlemen, 
To  spatter  folly's  skirts,  and  then 
We're  somewhat  bashful  with  the  ladies. 

Nor  is  it  meant  to  give  advice ; 

We  dare  not  take  so  much  upon  us ; 
But  merely  wish,  inr  phrase  concise, 
To  beg  you,  Ma'am,  and  Mr.  Price, 

For  God's  sake,  to  have  mercy  on  us ! 

Oh  !  wave  again  thy  wand  of  power, 

No  more  in  melodramas  whine, 
Nor  toil  Aladdin's  lamp  to  scour, 
Nor  dance  fandangoes  by  the  hour 

To  Morgiana's  tambourine ! 

Think,  Lady,  what  we're  doomed  to  feel — 

By  Heaven  !  'twould  rouse  the  wrath  of  Stoics, 
To  see  the  queen  of  sorrows  deal 


TO  MRS.   BARNES.  30! 

In  thundering  "lofty-low"  by  Shiell, 
Or  mad  Maturin's  mock-heroics. 

Away  with  passion's  withering  kiss, 

A  purer  spell  be  thine  to  win  us ; 
Unlock  the  fount  of  holiness 
While  gentle  Pity  weeps  in  bliss, 

And  hearts  throb  sweetly  sad  within  us, 

Or  call  those  smiles  again  to  thee 
That  shone  upon  the  lip  that  won  them, 

Like  sun-drops  on  a  summer-sea, 

When  waters  ripple  pleasantly 

To  wanton  winds  that  flutter  o'er  them. 

When  Pity  wears  her  willow- wreath, 

Let  Desdemona's  woes  be  seen ; 
Sweet  Beverly's  confiding  faith, 
Or  Juliet,  loving  on  in  death, 

Or  uncomplaining  Imogen. 

When  wit  and  mirth  their  temples  bind 
With  thistle-shafts  o'.erhung  with  flowers, 

Then  quaint  and  merry  Rosalind, 

Beatrice  with  her  April  mind 
And  Dinah's  simple  heart  be  ours. 

For  long  thy  modest  orb  has  been 
Eclipsed  by  heartless,  cold  parade ; 


302 


TO  MRS.  BARNES. 


So  sinks  the  light  of  evening's  queen 
When  the  dull  earth  intrudes  between, 
Her  beauties  from  the  sun  to  shade. 


Let  Fashion's  worthless  plaudits  rise 

At  the  deep  tone  and  practised  start ; 
Be  thine  true  feeling's  stifled  sighs, 
Tears  wrung  from  stern  and  stubborn  eyes, 
And  smiles  that  sparkle  from  the  heart. 

H  AND  D. 


TO   SIMON, 


THE    OMNIPOTENT    AND    OMNIPRESENT    CATERER    FOR    FASHIONABLE 
SUPPER-PARTIES. 


|  EAR  Simon  1  Princ*e  of  pastry-cooks, 

Oysters,  and  ham,  and  cold  neat's  tongue, 
Pupil  of  Mitchill's  cookery-books, 

And  bosom  friend  of  old  and  young  ! 
Sure  from  some  higher,  brighter  sphere 

In  showers  of  gravy  thou  wert  hurled,    . 
To  aid  our  routs  and  parties  here, 
And  grace  the  fashionable  world ! 

Taught  by  thy  art,  we  closely  follow 

And  ape  the  English  lords  and  misses ; 
For  music,  we've  the  Black  Apollo, 

And  Mrs.  Poppleton42  for  kisses. 
We  borrow  all  the  rest,  you  know, 

Our  glass  from  Christie48  for  the  time, 
Plate  from  our  friends  to  make  a  show, 

And  cash,  to  pay  small  bills  from  Prime. 

What  though  old  Squaretoes  will  not  bless  thee — 
He  fears  your  power  and  dreads  your  bill ; 

Mother  and  her  dear  girls  caress  thee, 
And  pat  thy  cheek,  and  praise  thee  still. 


304  T0  SIMON. 

Oh,  Simon !  how  we  envy  thee, 

When  belles  that  long  have  frowned  on  all, 
Greet  thee  with  smiles,  and  bend  the  knee, 

To  beg  you'll  help  them  "  give  a  ball !  " 

Though  it  is  ungenteel  to  think, 

For  thought  affects  the  nerves  and  brain ! 
Yet  oft  we  think  of  thee,  "and  drink 

Thy  health  in  Lynch's  best  champagne. 
'Tis  pity  that  thy  signal  merit 

Should  slumber  in  so  low  a  station ; 
Act,  Simon,  like  a  lad  of  spirit, 

And  thou,  in  time,  mayst  rule  the  nation ! 

Break  up  your  Saturdays  "at  home," 

Cut  Guinea  and  your  sable  clan, 
Buy  a  new  eye-glass  and  become 

A  dandy  and  a  gentleman. 
You  must  speak  French,  and  make  a  bow, 

Ten  lessons  are  enough  for  that ; 
And  Leavenworth44  will  teach  you  how 

To  wear  your  corsets  and  cravat. 

Knock  all  your  chambers  into  one, 
Hire  fiddlers,  glasses,  Barons  too, 

And  then  invite  the  whole  haut-ton  ; 
Ask  Hosack,  he  can  tell  you  who. 

The  great  that  are,  and — wish  to  be, 
Within  your  brilliant  rooms  will  meet, 


TO   SIMON.  305 

And  belles  of  high  and  low  degree, 
From  Broadway  up  to  Cherry  Street. 

This  will  insure  you  free  admission 

To  all  our  routs,  for  years  to  come ; 
And  when  you  die,  a  long  procession 

Of  dandies  shall  surround  your  tomb. 
We'll  raise  an  almond  statue  where 

In  dust  your  honored  head  reposes  ; 
Mothers  shall  lead  their  daughters  there, 

And  bid  them  twine  your  bust  with  roses. 

H.  AND  D. 


A  LOVING   EPISTLE 

TO    MR.    WILLIAM    COBBETT,45  OF  NORTH    HEMPSTEAD,    LONG    ISLAND. 

"  Beloved  of  Heaven  !  the  smiling  Muse  shall  shed 
Her  moonlight  halo  on  thy  beauteous  head !  " 

CAMPBELL. 

[RIDE,  boast,  and  glory  of  each  hemisphere  ! 
Well  known  and  loved  in  both — great  Cob- 

bett,  hail ! 
Hero  of  Botley  there,  and  Hempstead  here, 

Of  Newgate,  and  a  Pennsylvanian  jail ! 
Long  shall  this  grateful  nation  bless  the  hour, 

When,*  by  the  beadle  and  your  debts  pursued, 
The  victim,  like  famed  Barrington,46  of  power, 
"  You  left  your  country  for  your  country 's  good '/  " 

Terror  of  Borough-mongers,  Banks,  and  Crowns, 

Thorburn  the  seedsman,  and  Lord  Castlereagh  ! 
Potato-tops  fall  withering  at  your  frowns, 

Grand  Ruta-Baga  Turnip  of  your  day  ! 
Banish  the  memory  of  Lockhart's  cane, 

And  Philadelphian  pole-cats  from  your  mind ; 
Let  the  world  scoff, — still  you  and  Hunt  remain, 

Yourselves  a  host — the  envy  of  mankind ! 


A   LOVING  EPISTLE  TO   WILLIAM  COBBETT.      307 

Whether,  as  once  in  "  Peter  Porcupine," 

You  curse  the  country  whose  free  air  you  breathe, 
Or,  as  plain  William  Cobbett,  toil  to  twine 

Around  your  brows  Sedition's  poisoned  wreath, 
Or,  in  your  letter  to  Sir  Francis,  tear 

All  moral  ties  asunder  with  your  pen, 
We  trace  your  gentle  spirit  everywhere, 

And  greet  you  prince  of  Slander's  scribbling  men. 

Well  may  our  hearts  with  pride  and  pleasure  swell, 

To  know  that  face  to  face  we  soon  shall  meet, 
We'll  gaze  upon  you  as  you  stand  and  sell 

Grammars  and  Garden  Seeds  in  Fulton  Street ! 
And  praise  your  book  that  tells  about  the  weather, 

Our  laws,  religion,  hogs,  and  things,  to  boot, 
Where  your  unequalled  talents  teach  together 

Turnips  and  "young  ideas  how  to  shoot." 

In  recompense,  that  you've  designed  to  make 

Choice  of  our  soil  above  all  other  lands, 
A  purse  we'll  raise  to  pay  your  debts,  and  take 

Your  unsold  Registers  all  off  your  hands. 
For  this,  we  ask  that  you,  for  once  will  show 

Some  gratitude — and,  if  you  can,  be  civil ; 
Burn  all  your  books,  sell  all  your  pigs,  and  go — 

No  matter  where — to  England,  or  the  devil ! 

H  H. 


THE   FORUM. 

|IS  o'er — the  fatal  hour  has  come, 
The  voice  of  eloquence  is  dumb, 
Mute  are  the  members  of  the  Forum ! 
We've  shed  what  tears  we  had  to  spare, 
There  now  remains  the  pious  care 

Of  chanting  a  sad  requiem  o'er  'em. 

The  Roman  drank  the  Tiber's  wave, 
Ilissus'  stream  its  virtues  gave 

To  bid  the  Grecian  live  forever ; 
Our  Forum  orators  a  draught 
Of  greater  potency  have  quaffed, 

Sparkling  and  pure  from  the  North  River ! 

Proudly  our  bosoms  beat  to  claim 
Communion  with  our  country's  fame 

From  Bunker's  Hill  to  Chippewa. 
All  who  on  battle-field  or  wave, 
Have  met  the  death  that  waits  the  brave, 
Or  pealed,  above  their  foeman's  grave, 

The  victor's  wild  hurrah  ! 


THE  FORUM. 

The  one  that  quelled  a  tyrant  king, 

And  he  who  "  grasped  the  lightning's  wing," 

Were  nurtured  in  our  country's  bowers ; 
But  now  a  brighter  gem  is  set 
Upon  her  star-wrought  coronet, 

The  world's  first  orators  are  ours. 

The  name  of  every  Forum  chief47 
Shall  gleam  upon  our  history's  leaf, 

Circled  with  glory's  quenchless  fires ; 
And  poet's  pen  and  painter's  pallet 
Shall  tell  of  William  Paxson  Hallett, 

And  Richard  Varick  Dey — Esquires  1 

Resort  of  fashion,  beauty,  taste, 
The  Forum-hall  was  nightly  graced 
With  all  who  blushed  their  hours  to  waste 

At  balls — and  such  ungodly  places ; 
And  Quaker  girls  were  there  allowed 
To  show,  among  the  worldly  crowd, 

Their  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pretty  faces. 

And  thither  all  our  wise  ones  went, 
On  charity  and  learning  bent, 

With  open  ears — and  purses  willing, 
Where  they  could  dry  the  mourner's  tear, 
And  see  the  world,  and  speeches  hear, 

All,  for  "  a  matter  of  two  shilling  !  " 


3IO  THE  FORUM. 

Let  Envy  drop  her  raven  quill, 
Let  Slander's  venomed  lip  be  still, 

And  hushed  Detraction's  croaking  song, 
That  dared,  devoid  of  taste  and  sense, 
To  call  these  sons  of  Eloquence 

A  spouting,  stammering,  schoolboy  throng 

In  vain,  for  they  in  grave  debate 

Weighed  mighty  themes  of  church  and  state 

With  words  of  power,  and  looks  of  sages ; 
While  far  diffused,  their  gracious  smile 
Soothed  Bony  in  his  prison-isle. 

And  Turkish  wives  in  harem-cages  ! 

Heaven  bless  them  !  for  their  generous  pity 
Toiled  hard  to  light  our  darkened  city, 

With  that  firm  zeal  that  never  flinches ; 
And  long,  to  prove  the  love  they  bore  us, 
With  "  more  last  words  "  they  lingered  o'er  us, 

And  died,  like  a  tom-cat,  by  inches ! 

H. 


ODE  TO   FORTUNE 

|  AIR  lady  with  the  bandaged  eye ! 
I'll  pardon  all  thy  scurvy  tricks, 
So  thou  wilt  cut  me,  and  deny 

Alike  thy  kisses  and  thy  kicks : 
I'm  quite  contented  as  I  am, 

Have  cash  to  keep  my  duns  at  bay, 
Can  choose  between  beefsteaks  and  ham, 
And  drink  Madeira  every  day. 

My  station  is  the  middle  rank, 

My  fortune — just  a  competence — 
Ten  thousand  in  the  Franklin  Bank, 

And  twenty  in  the  six  per  cents. ; 
No  amorous  chains  my  heart  enthrall, 

I  neither  borrow,  lend,  nor  sell ; 
Fearless  I  roam  the  City  Hall, 

And  "bite  my  thumb"  at  Sheriff  Bell. 

The  horse  that  twice  a  week  I  ride, 
At  Mother  Dawson's49  eats  his  fill ; 

My  books  at  Goodrich's60  abide, 
My  country-seat  is  Weehawk  hill ; 


312  ODE  TO  FORTUNE. 

My  morning  lounge  is  Eastburn's  shop, 
At  Poppleton's  I  take  my  lunch, 

Niblo  prepares  my  mutton-chop, 

And  Jennings51  makes  my  whiskey-punch. 

When  merry,  I  the  hours  amuse 

By  squibbing  Bucktails,  Guards,  and  Balls, 
And  when  I'm  troubled  with  the  blues, 

Damn  Clinton  and  abuse  canals : 
Then,  Fortune  !  since  I  ask  no  prize, 

At  least  preserve  me  from  thy  frown  ! 
The  man  who  don't  attempt  to  rise, 

'Twere  cruelty  to  tumble  down. 

H.  AND  D. 


THE   LOVE  OF   NOTORIETY. 

|HERE  are  laurels  our  temples  throb  warmly  to 

claim, 

Unwet  by  the  blood-dripping  fingers  of  War, 
And  as  dear  to  the  heart  are  the  whispers  of  fame, 
As  the  blasts  of  her  bugle  rang  fiercely  and  far ; 
The  death-dirge  is  sung  o'er  the  warrior's  tomb, 

Ere  the  world  to  his  valor  its  homage  will  give, 
But  the  feathers  that  form  Notoriety's  plume, 
Are  plucked  in  the  sunshine,  and  live  while  we  live. 

There's  a  wonderful  charm  in  that  sort  of  renown 
Which  consists  in  becoming  "  the  talk  of  the  town  ;  " 
'Tis  a  pleasure  which  none  but  your  "  truly  great "  feels, 
To  be  followed  about  by  a  mob  at  one's  heels ; 
And  to  hear  from  the  gazing  and  mouth-open  throng, 
The  dear  words  "  Thafs  he,"  as  one  trudges  along; 
While  Beauty,  all  anxious,  stands  up  on  tip-toes, 
Leans  on  her  beau's  shoulder,  and  lisps  "  There  he  goes." 

For  this  the  young  Dandy,  half  whalebone,  half  starch, 
Parades  through  Broadway  with  the  stiff  Steuben  march ; 
A  new  species  of  being,  created,  they  say, 
By  nine  London  tailors,  who  ventured  one  day 


314  THE  LOVE   OF  NOTORIETY. 

To  cabbage  a  spark  of  Promethean  fire, 

Which  they  placed  in  a  German  doll  latticed  with  wire, 

And  formed  of  the  scarecrow  a  Dandy  divine, 

But  mum  about  tailors — I  haven't  paid  mine. 

And  for  this,  little  Brummagem  mounts  with  a  smile 

His  own  hackney  buggy,  and  dashes  in  style 

From  some  livery  stable  to  Cato's62  Hotel, 

And  though  'tis  a  desperate  task  to  be  striving 

With  .these  sons  of  John  Bull  in  the  science  of  driving, 

We  have  still  a  few  Jockies  who  do  it  as  well. 

There  are  two,  "par  example,"  'tis  joy  to  behold, 

With  their  Haytian  grooms  trotting  graceful  behind 

them, 
In  their  livery  jackets  of  blue,  green,  and  gold, 

Their  bright  varnished  hats  and  the  laces  that  bind 

them: 
The  one's  an  Adonis,  who,  since  the  sad  day 

That  he  shot  at  himself53  has  been  courted  no  more  ; 
The  other's  a  name  it  were  treason  to  say, 

A  very  great  man — with  "two  lamps™  at  his  door" 

H. 


AN   ODE  TO   SIMEON   DE  WITT,    ESQ., 


SURVEYOR-GENERAL    OF    THE    STATE    OF    NEW    YORK. 

When  the  Western  District  was  surveyed,  the  power  of  naming  its 
townships  was  intrusted  to  the  Surveyor-General.  Fancying  the  Indian 
appellations  too  sonorous  and  poetical,  and  conscious  that  his  own  ear  was 
not  altogether  adapted  for  the  musical  combination  of  syllables,  this  gentle- 
man hit  upon  a  plan  which  for  laughable  absurdity  has  never  been  paralleled, 
except  by  the  "  Philosophy,"  "Philanthropy,"  and  "Big  Little  Dry"  sys- 
tem of  Lewis  and  Clarke.  It  was  no  other  than  selecting  from  Lempriere 
and  the  "  British  Plutarch,"  the  great  names  which  these  works  commemo- 
rate. This  plan  he  executed  with  the  most  ridiculous  fidelity,  and  reared 
for  himself  an  everlasting  monument  of  pedantry  and  folly. 


|F,  on  the  deathless  page  of  Fame, 

The  warrior's  deeds  are  writ, 
If  that  bright  record  bear  the  name 
Of  each  whose  hallowed  brow  might  claim 

The  wreath  of  wisdom  or  of  wit ; 
If  even  they,  whose  cash  and  care 
Have  nursed  the  infant  arts,  be  there, 

What  place  remains  for  thee, 
Who,  neither  warrior,  bard,  nor  sage, 
Has  poured  on  this  benighted  age 

The  blended  light  of  all  the  tttree  ? 

Godfather  of  the  christened  West ! 
Thy  wonder-working  power 


316  ODE  TO  SIMEON  DE   WITT,  ESQ. 

Has  called  from  their  eternal  rest 
The  poets  and  the  chiefs  who  blest 

Old  Europe  in  her  happier  hour : 
Thou  givest  to  the  buried  great 
A  citizen's  certificate ; 

And,  aliens  now  no  more, 
The  children  of  each  classic  town 
Shall  emulate  their  sires'  renown 

In  science,  wisdom,  or  in  war. 

The  bard  who  treads  on  Homer's  earth 

Shall  mount  the  epic  throne, 
And  pour,  like  breezes  of  the  north, 
Such  spirit-stirring  stanzas  forth 

As  Paulding  would  not  blush  to  own. 
And  he,  who  casts  around  his  eyes 
Where  Hampderfs  bright  stone-fences  rise, 

Shall  swear  with  thrilling  joint, 
As  German55  did— "We  yet  are  free, 
And  this  accursed  tax  should  be 

Resisted  at  the  bayonet's  point !  " 

What  man,  where  Scipio's  praises  skip 

From  every  rustling  leaf, 
But  girds  cdld  iron  on  his  hip, 
With  "  Shoulder  firelock !  "  arms  nis  lip 

And  struts  a  bold  militia  chief! 
And  who  that  breathes  where  Cato  lies, 


ODE  TO  SIMEON  DE   WITT,  ESQ.  3x7 

But  feels  the  Censor  spirit  rise 

At  folly's  idle  pranks  ? 
With  voice  that  fills  the  Congress  halls, 
"  Domestic  manufactures  "  bawls, 

And  damns  the  Dandies  and  the  Banks ! 

Behold  !  where  Junius  town  is  set, 

A  Brutus  is  the  judge ; B6 
'Tis  true  he  serves  the  Tarquin  yet, 
Still  winds  his  limbs  in  folly's  net, 

And  seems  a  very  patient  drudge. 
But  let  the  Despot  fall,  and  bright 
As  morning  from  the  shades  of  night, 

Forth  in  his  pride  he'll  stand, 
The  guard  and  glory  of  our  soil, 
A  head  for  thought,  a  hand  for  toil, 

A  tongue  to  warn,  persuade,  command. 

Lo  !  Galen  sends  her  Doctors  round, 

Proficients  in  their  trade ; 
Historians  are  in  Livy  found, 
Ulysses,  from  her  teeming  ground 

Pours  politicians  ready  made ; 
Fresh  orators  in  Tully  rise, 
Nestor  our  counsellors  supplies, 

Wise,  vigilant,  and  close ; 
Gracchus  our  tavern-statesmen  rears, 
And  Milton  finds  us  pamphleteers, 

As  well  as  poets,  by  the  gross. 


318  ODE  TO  SIMEON  DE   WITT,  ESQ. 

Surveyor  of  the  Western  plains  ! 

The  sapient  work  is  thine ; 
Full-fledged,  it  sprang  from  out  thy  brains,— 
One  added  touch  alone  remains 

To  consummate  the  grand  design  : 
•  Select  a  town— and  christen  it 
With  thy  unrivalled  name  De  Witt ! 

Soon  shall  the  glorious  bantling  bless  us 
With  a  fair  progeny  of  Fools, 
To  fill  our  colleges  and  schools 

With  tutors,  regents,  and  professors. 

H.  AND  D. 


TO  E.  SIMPSON,  ESQ., 

MANAGER     OF     THE     PARK     THEATRE.67 

|  EAR  Simpson,  since  the  day  is  near 

Destined  to  close  your  late  campaign, 
'Tis  well  to  greet  the  coming  year, 
And  learn  how  best  you  may  appear 

Before  the  public  eye  again. 
One  thing,  at  least,  whate'er  you  do, 
For  Heaven's  sake  give  us  something  new  ! 
For  though  your  actors  have  not  lost 

One  lightning-flash  of  Thespian  fire, 
Yet  beauties  that  delight  us  most, 

The  wearied  eye,  in  time,  will  tire, 
'Tis  thus  the  sated  gaze  of  taste 

Holland's 68  drop-curtain  heedless  passes ; 
And  thus  the  schoolboy  loathes  at  last 

His  sugar-candy  and  molasses. 

Now,  if  you  will  but  take  advice, 

Bank-notes  shall  fall  like  summer  rain, 

And  next  year  you  and  Mr.  Price 

May  cut  your  cider  for  champagne. 

Just  hand  your  present  corps  down-stairs, 
Disband  them  all,  and  then  create 


320  TO  E.   SIMPSON,  ESQ. 

Another  army  from  the  Players 
That  figure  on  the  stage  of  State. 

A  better  set  there  cannot  be 

For  clap-trap  and  stage  trickery, 
And  they'll  be  well  content  to  quit 

Their  present  posts  for  higher  pay ; 
For  if  they  but  good  salaries  get, 

It  matters  not  what  parts  they  play. 
You'll  have  no  quarelling  about 
The  characters  you  deal  them  out ; 
Their  public  acts  too  well  have  shown 
They  care  but  little  for  their  own. 

How  nicely  would  Judge  Spencer  fit 

For  "Overreach"  and  "Bajazet;  " 

Van  Buren,  nimble,  sly,  and  thin, 

Would  make  a  noble  "  Harlequin ;  " 

Clinton  would  play  "  King  Dick  the  Surly," 

The  learned  "Pangloss"  and  grave  ''Lord  Burleigh;  " 

Woodworth  (whose  name  the  Muse  shall  hallow) 

Is  quite  at  home  in  "  Justice  Shallow;  " 

And  slippery,  smooth-faced  Tallmadge  stands 

A  "Joseph  Surface"  at  your  hands. 

Lo  !  where  the  acting  Council  sits, 

A  grand  triumvirate  of  wits, 

Cut  out  express  by  Nature's  chisel 

For  "  Noodle,  Doodle,  and  Lord  Grizzle ;  " 


TO  E.   SIMPSON,  ESQ.  321 

The  Members  who  contrived  to  fill 
The  State  purse  from  the  steamboat-till, 
Dressed  out  in  turbans  and  white  sleeves, 
Would  figure  in  the  "  Forty  Thieves." 

We'll  linger  with  delighted  grin 
To  see  old  Root  in  "  Nippcrkin," 
And  gaze  with  reverential  wonder 
On  Skinner's  sapient  face  in  "  Ponder  !  " 

While  Peter  R ,  the  jovial  soul, 

Will  toss  off  Jobson's  "  brimming  bowl," 

Fit  for  a  Senator  to  swim  in ; 
And  bravos  rung  from  half  the  town, 
Would  tell  the  fame  of  Walter  Bowne, 

In  "  Cacafogo  "  and  old  women. 

Our  City  Aldermen,  you  know, 

Are  conjurors,  ex  officio  j 

And,  with  the  Mayor  in  his  silk  breeches, 

Would  do  for  "  Hecate  and  the  witches." 

Christian  and  Warner,  long  the  scourges 

Of  Bucks  and  other  "  vagrom  men," 
Would  find  in  "  Dogberry  and  Verges" 

Their  very  selves  restored  again. 

Buckmaster,  fat,  and  full  of  glee, 

Might  rival  Cooke  in  "Jack  Falstaff ;  " 

"  Pistol  "  and  "  Bobadil "  would  be 
Revived  once  more  in  Captain  Hatf. 


322  TO  E.  SIMPSON;  ESQ. 

To  classic  Meigs,  who  soon,  thank  Heaven  ! 

In  Congress,  will  illume  the  age, 
The  brightest  wages  should  be  given, 

To  trim  the  lamps  and  light  the  stage. 
Van  Wyck  will  play  the  "  Giant  Wife," 
And  "  Death  "  in  "  Blue  Beard  "  to  the  life  ; 
And  surly  German  do,  at  least, 
For  "  Bear  "  in  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast." 

Maxwell  and  Gardenier,  you'll  fix 

With  strong  indentures,  by  all  means  ; 
They're  used  to  shifting  politics, 

And  soon  would  learn  to  shift  the  scenes. 
Bacon  might  bustle  on  in  "  Meddler," 
Gilbert  play  new  tricks  in  "  Diddler," 

Good  honest  Peter  H.  Wendover 
In  "  Vortex  "  read  his  one  speech  over, 
While  Pell  would  strike  the  critics  dumb, 
A  perfect  miniature  "  Tom  Thumb  ;  " 
And  Mitchill,  as  in  all  the  past, 
Talk  Science,  and  cut  corns  in  "  Last." 

H.  AND  D. 


THE  COUNCIL  OF   APPOINTMENT  AT 
ALBANY. 

|  HERE'S  magic  in  the  robe  of  power, 
Ennobling  every  thing  beneath  it ; 
Its  spell  is  like  the  Upas  bower, 

Whose  air  vt'fhpuffup  all  that  breathe  it. 
Alike  it  charms  the  horse-hair  tress 

That  Turkey's  three-tailed  Bashaws  wear, 
And  hallows  Clinton's  levee-dress 
Cut  by  the  classic  shears  of  Baehr.59 

Before  its  witchery,  of  late, 

Our  proudest  politicians  trembled, 
When  the  five  Heads  that  rule  the  State 

Around  the  Council-board  assembled. 
There,  arbiter  of  fates  and  fortunes, 

Of  brains  it  well  supplied  the  loss, 
Gave  Bates60  and  Rosencrantz  importance, 

And  made  a  gentleman  of  Ross. 

'Tis  vain  to  win  a  great  man's  name 
Without  some  proof  of  having  been  one ; 


324     THE  COUNCIL   OF  APPOINTMENT  AT  ALBANY. 

And  Killing's  a  sure  path  to  fame, 
Vide  Jack  Ketch  and  Mr.  Clinton  ! 

Our  Council  well  this  path  have  trod, 
Honor's  immortal  wreath  securing ; 

They've  dipped  their  hatchets  in  the  blood, 
The  patriot  blood,  of  Mat  Van  Buren. 


He  bears,  as  every  hero  ought, 

The  mandate  of  the  powers  that  rule 
(He's  higher  game  in  view,  'tis  thought, 

All  in  good  time ;  the  man's  no  fool). 
With  him,  some  dozens  prostrate  fall, 

No  friend  to  mourn,  nor  foe  to  flout  them, 
They  die  unsung,  unwept  by  all, 

For  no  one  cares  a  sou  about  them. 


Wortman  and  Scott  may  grace  the  bar  again, 

For  them,  a  blest  exchange  we  make  ; 
We've  dignity  in  Ned  McGareaghan, 

And  all,  but  that,  in  Jerry  Drake. 
And  lo !  the  wreath  of  withered  leaves 

That  lately  twined  Van  Buren's  brow, 
Oakley's  pure,  spotless  hand  receives ; 

He's  earned  it — 'tis  no  matter  how. 


Let  office-holders  cease  to  weep, 
And  put  once  more  their  gala-dress  on ; 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  APPOINTMENT  AT  ALBANY. 

The  Council's  closed,  and  they  may  sleep 

In  quiet,  till  the  winter  session. 
Since  all,  or  in  or  out  of  place, 

Wear  Knavery's  cloak  or  Folly's  feather, 
'Tis  ours  their  ups  and  downs  to  trace, 

And  laugh  at  ins  and  outs  together. 

H. 


325 


THE  MILITIA   OF   THE   CITY. 

]R.  CLINTON,  whose  worth  we  shall  know  when 

we've  lost  him, 
Is  delightfully  free  of  his  gifts,  if  they  cost  him 
But  little  or  nothing,  like  smiles  and  brevets ; 
With  what  wonderful  tact  he  appreciates  merit 
In  bestowing  on  all  our  grown  lads  of  high  spirit 
His  parchment  commissions  and  gold  epaulettes  ! 

'Tis  amusing  to  see  these  young  nurslings  of  fame, 
With  their  sashes  of  crimson  and  collars  of  flame ; 
Their  cocked  hats  enchanting — their  buttons  divine, 
And  even  the  cloth  of  their  coats  superfine ! 
Displaying,  around  us,  their  new  tinsel  riches, 
As  proud  as  a  boy  in  his  first  pair  of  breeches. 

Ah !  who  does  not  envy  their  steps  of  delight, 
Through  the  streets  to  their  battle-drums  prancing, 

While  scared  at  their   "  chimney-sweep "  badges  so 
bright, 

Cartmen,  pigs,  and  old  women,  seek  safety  in  flight, 
As,  in  exquisite  order,  their  lines  are  advancing ! 

Long  live  the  Militia !  from  sergeant  to  drummer 
They've  the  true  soldier-aspect,  chivalric  and  wild, 


THE  MILITIA    OF  THE  CITY.  327 

In  their  clothes  of  more  hues  than  the  rainbow  of  sum- 
mer, 

Or  the  dress  which  the  Patriarch  wore  when  a  child. 
Unawed  by  court-martials,  by  fines  or  by  fears, 
They  glow  with  the  feelings  of  free  Volunteers. 

Yes !  long  live  the  Militia !  that  free  school  of  glory 

Where   Mapes,  Golden,  and   Steddiford  took  their 

degree ; 
Lives  there  a  man  who  ne'er  heard  their  proud  story, 

What  an  ignorant,  unlettered  cub  he  must  be  ! 
From  the  Battery  flag-staff  their  fame  has  ascended 

To  the  sand-hills  of  Greenwich  and  plains  of  Bellevue  • 
And  the  belles  of  Park  Place  for  the  palm  have  con- 
tended 

Of  rewarding  the  feats  they  have  promised  to  do  ! 
Let  the  poets  of  Europe  still  scribble  as  hard  as 

They  please,  of  their  Caesars  and  Bonys  to  tell — 
Be  ours  the  bright  names  of  Laight,  Ward,  and  Bogar- 
dus, 

And  that  promising  genius,  the  bold  Colonel  Pell. 

H. 


AN   ADDRESS61 

For  the  opening  of  the  new  Theatre,  Sept.  I,  1821, 
to  be  spoken  by  Mr.  Olliff. 

IADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN  : 

Enlightened  as  you  were,  you  all  must  know 
Our  playhouse  was  burnt  down  some  time  ago, 
Without  insurance.     'Twas  a  famous  blaze, 
Fine  fun  for  firemen,  but  dull  sport  for  plays  ; 
The  proudest  of  our  whole  dramatic  corps 
Such  warm  reception  never  met  before. 
It  was  a  woeful  night  for  us  and  ours, 
Worse  than  dry  weather  to  the  fields  and  flowers. 
The  evening  found  us  gay  as  summer's  lark, 

Happy  as  sturgeons  in  the  Tappan  Sea ; 
The  morning,  like  the  dove  from  Noah's  ark, 

As  homeless,  houseless,  desolate  as  she. 

But  thanks  to  those  who  always  have  been  known 
To  love  the  public  interest,  when  their  own — 
Thanks  to  the  men  of  talent  and  of  trade, 
Who  joy  in  doing  well  when  they're  well  paid — 
Again  our  fireworn  mansion  is  rebuilt, 
Inside  and  outside,  neatly  carved  and  gilt, 


AN  ADDRESS. 


329 


With  best  of  paint  and  canvas,  lath  and  plaster, 

The  Lord  bless  Beekman 8<J  and  John  Jacob  Astor ! 

As  an  old  coat,  from  Jenning's 6J  patent  screw, 

Comes  out  clean  scoured  and  brighter  than  the  new ; 

As  an  old  head  in  Saunders' 63  patent  wig, 

Looks  wiser  than  when  young,  and  twice  as  big ; 

As  Mat  Van  Buren  in  the  Senate-hall, 

Repairs  the  loss  we  met  in  Spencer's  fall ; 

As  the  new  Constitution  will  (we're  told) 

Be  worth,  at  least,  a  dozen  of  the  old, 

So  is  our  new  house  better  than  its  brother, 

Its  roof  is  painted  yellower  than  the  other, 

It  is  insured  at  three  per  cent,  'gainst  fire, 

And  cost  three  times  as  much,  and  is  six  inches  higher. 

Tis  not  alone  the  house — the  prompter's  clothes 
Are  all  quite  new,  so  are  the  fiddlers'  bows  ; 
The  supernumeraries  are  newly  shaved, 
New  drilled,  and  all  extremely  well  behaved 
(They'll  each  one  be  allowed,  I  pause  to  mention, 
The  right  of  suffrage  by  the  new  Convention). 
We've  some  new  thunder,  several  new  plays, 
And  a  new  splendid  carpet  of  green  baize. 
So  that  there's  naught  remains  to  bid  us  reach 
The  topmost  bough  of  favor,  but  a  speech — 
A  speech,  the  prelude  to  each  public  meeting, 
Whether  for  morals,  charity,  or  eating— 
A  speech,  the  modern  mode  of  winning  hearts, 
And  power,  and  fame,  in  politics  and  arts. 


330  AN  ADDRESS. 

What  made  the  good  Monroe 64  our  President  ? 
'Twas  that  through  all  this  blessed  land  he  went 
With  his  immortal  cocked  hat  and  short  breeches, 
Dining — wherever  asked — and  making  speeches. 
What,  when  Missouri  stood  on  her  last  legs, 
Revived  her  hopes  ?    The  speech  of  Henry  Meigs.6£ 
What  proves  our  country  wise,  learned,  and  happy  ? 
MitchilPs  address  to  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa. 
What  has  convinced  the  world  that  we  have  men, 
First  with  the  sword,  the  chisel,  brush,  and  pen, 
Shaming  all  English  rivals,  men  or  madams  ? 
The  " Fourth  of  July"  speech  of  Mr.  Adams. 
Yes,  if  our  managers  grow  great  and  rich, 
And  players  prosper,  let  them  thank  my  speech, 
And  let  the  name  of  Olliff  proudly  go 
With  Meigs  and  Adams,  Mitchill  and  Monroe  ! 

H. 


EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  HOGBIN,  ESQ., 

Chairman  of  the  Committee  of  Working-Men,  etc.,  at 
the  Westckester  Hotel,  Bowery,  Nov.,,  1830. 

JR.  HOGBIN,  —  I  work  as  a  weaver  —  of  rhyme  — 
And  therefore  presume  with  a  working-man's 


To  address  you  as  one  I  have  liked  for  some  time, 
Though  I  know  not  (no  doubt  it's  a  fine  one)  your  face. 

There  is  much  in  a  name,  and  I'll  lay  you  a  wager 
(Two  ale-jugs  from  Reynolds'66),   that  Nature   de- 

signed, 
When  she  formed  you,  that  you  should  become  the 

drum-major 

In  that  choice  piece  of  music,  the  Grand  March  of 
Mind. 

A  Hogbin  !  a  Hogbin  !  how  cheering  the  shout 
Of  all  that  keep  step  to  that  beautiful  air, 

Which  leads,  like  the  treadmill,  about  and  about, 
And  leaves  us  exactly,  at  last,  where  we  were  ! 

Yes,  there's  much  in  a  name,  and  a  Hogbin's  so  fit  is 
For  that  great  moral  purpose  whose  impulse  divine 
15 


332  EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  HOGBIN,  ESQ. 

Bids  men  leave  their  own  workshops  to  work  in  com- 
mittees, 

And  their  own  wedded  wives  to  protect  yours  and 
mine  ! 

That  we  working-men  prophets  are  sadly  mistaken, 
If  yours  is  not,  Hogbin,  a  durable  fame, 

As  lasting  as  England's  philosopher  Bacon, 
Whom  your  ancestors  housed,  if  we  judge  by  his 
name. 

When  the  moment  arrives  that  we've  won  the  good  fight, 
And  broken  the  chains  of  laws,  churches,  and  mar- 
riages, 

When  no  infants  are  born  under  six  feet  in  height, 
And  our  chimney-sweeps  mount  up  a  flue  in  theii 
carriages — 

That  glorious  time  when  our  daughters  and  sons 
Enjoy  a  blue  Monday  each  day  of  the  week, 

And  a  clean  shirt  is  classed  with  the  mastodon's  bones. 
Or  a  mummy  from  Thebes,  an  undoubted  antique-- 

Then,  then,  my  dear  Hogbin,  your  statue  in  straw, 
By  some  modern  /Y^malion  delightfully  wrought, 

Shall  embellish  the  Park,  and  our  youths'  only  law 
Shall  be  to  be  Hogbins  in  feeling  and  thought. 

H. 


LAMENTINGS. 


'  I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  precious  to  me." 

MACDUFF. 


|H  !  where  are  now  the  lights  that  shed 

A  lustre  o'er  my  darkened  hours, 
The  priests  of  pleasure's  fane,  who  spread, 
Each  night  beneath  my  weary  head, 
Endymion's  moonlight  couch  of  flowers  ? 

No  more  in  chains  of  music  bound, 

I  listen  to  those  airy  reels, 
When  quavering  Philipps  cuts  around 
Fantastic  pigeon-wings  of  sound, 
Like  Byrne,67  who,  without  touching  ground, 

Eleven  times  can  cross  his  heels. 

No  longer  Cooper's  tongue  of  tongues, 
Pumps  thunder  from  his  stormy  lungs ; 

Turner 68  has  shut  his  classic  pages, 
Southward  his  face  Magenis e*  turns, 
And  for  the  halls  of  Congress  spurns 

The  mansion  of  our  civic  sages. 


334  LAMENTINGS. 

And  Wallack,69  too,  no  longer  dips 

In  bathos,  for  the  tragic  prize  ; 
And  Bartley,69  a  melalogue  that  slips 
Melodious  from  her  honeyed  lips, 
No  more  in  murmured  music  dies. 

Yet,  though  fell  Fortune  has  bereft 
My  heart  of  all,  one  mode  is  left 

In  slumber's  vision  to  restore  'em  ; 
Weekly  I'll  buy  with  pious  pence, 
A  dose  of  opiate  eloquence, 

And  sleep  in  quiet  at  the  Forum. 

D. 


TO  QUACKERY. 

[ODDESS  !  for  such  thou  art,  who  rules 

This  honest  and  enlightened  city ; 
True  patroness  of  knaves  and  fools, 

To  thee  we  dedicate  our  ditty. 
Whether  in  Barclay  Street  thou  sittest, 

Or,  on  papyrean  pinions  borne, 
Dropping  mercurial  dews,  thou  flittest 
Around  thine  own  anointed  Home  :70 

Whether,  arrayed  in  gown  and  band, 

Thy  pious  zeal  distributes  Bibles, 
Or,  perched  on  Spooner's  classic  hand, 

Writes  merry  eulogistic  libels  ; 
Where'er  we  turn  our  raptured  eyes, 

We  see  this  puffing  generation, 
Cheered  by  thy  smile,  propitious,  rise 

To  profit,  power,  and  reputation. 

Then  come,  ye  Quacks !  the  anthem  swell ; 

Come,  Allen,  with  thy  lottery  bills  ; 
Come,  four-herbed  Angelis,70  who  fell 

From  heaven  in  a  shower  of  pills  ; 
Come,  Geib,  whose  potent  word  creates 

Prime  analytical  musicians  ; 


236  TO  QUACKERY. 

And  come,  ye  hosts  that  hold  brevets 
From  Hosack's  college  of  physicians. 

And  thou,  botanic  Hosack,  bring 

Thy  poppy-breathing  lips  along ; 
Thy  name  in  steeple-bells  shall  ring, 

Thou  monarch  of  the  motley  throng. 
Yet  Mitchill  may  the  votes  estrange, 

Or  Doctor  Clinton,  to  confound  ye, 
Again  produce  some  queer  melange 

Of  scientific  Salmagundi. 

Clinton  !  the  name  my  fancy  fires, 

I  see  him,  with  a  sage's  look, 
Exhausting  Nature,  and  whole  quires 

Of  foolscap,  in  his  wondrous  book. 
Columbia's  genius  hovers  o'er  him, 

Fair  Science,  smiling,  lingers  near, 
Encyclopaedias  lie  before  him, 

And  Mitchill  whispers  in  his  ear. 

Enough  !  the  swelling  wave  has  borne 

Upon  its  bosom  chiefs  and  kings — 
From  Mitchill,  Clinton,  Hosack,  Horne, 

One  cannot  stoop  to  meaner  things. 
Yet  once  again  we'll  raise  the  song, 

And  passing  forums,  banks,  and  brokers, 
Join  with  the  bubble-blowing  throng, 

Seize  Quackery's  pipe,  and  puff  the  Croakers. 

D. 


TO  THE  DIRECTORS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 
OF  ARTS. 

ILLUSTRIOUS  autocrats  of  taste  ! 
Inspectors  of  the  wonders  traced 
By  pencil,  brush,  or  chisel  ! 
Accept  a  nameless  poet's  lay, 
Who  longs  to  twine  a  sprig  of  bay 
Around  his  penny  whistle. 

Ye  learned  and  enlightened  few 
Who  keep  the  portal  of  virtu, 

I  pray  you  now  unlock  it, 
And  grant  a  peep,  for  all  my  pains, 
Within  your  oil-bedaubed  domains, 
The  Dome  where  now  the  poor  in  brains 

Succeed  the  poor  in  pocket. 

All  honored  be  the  rich  repast 
At  which  the  sage  decree  was  past 

Of  pauper  health  so  tender, 
Which  sent  the  beggars  to  Bellevue, 
And  left  the  classic  fame  to  you 

And  Scudder's  Witch  of  Endor. 


338  TO  THE  DIRECTORS,  ETC. 

Obliging  all,  you  fear  no  harm 
From  Disappointment's  angry  arm, 

No  cudgels,  sneers,  or  libels  ; 
Alike  you  smile  on  worst  and  best, 
From  great  Rubens  and  Quaker  West, 

To  wooden  cuts  for  Bibles. 


Lo  !  next  the  Gallic  thunderbolt, 
Some  nameless,  shapeless,  ugly  dolt, 

His  plastic  phiz  advances ; 
And  vestal  footsteps  lightly  tread, 
And  Cupids  sport  around  the  head 

Of  gentle  Doctor  Francis. 


While  placed  on  high  exalted  pegs, 
Apollo  blushes  for  his  legs, 

And  mourns  his  severed  fingers ; 
Some  amorous  wight,  with  passion  drunk, 
O'er  Cytherea's  headless  trunk 

Luxuriously  lingers. 


Here  Danae  rolls  her  humid  eyes 
To  meet  the  ruler  of  the  skies 

In  tricks  that  please  old  Satan  ; 
And  there  our  eyes  delighted  trace 
The  scarlet  coat  and  lily  face 

Of  gallant  Captain  Creighton. 71 


TO  THE  DIRECTORS,  ETC.  339 

Here  West's  creative  pencil  shines, 
And  paints,  in  tear-compelling  lines, 

Polony's  frenzied  daughter ; 
A  hang-dog  king,  and  sheepish  queen, 
And  her,  who  looks  as  if  she'd  been 

Just  fished  up  from  the  water  ! 

Thy  glories,  too,  are  blazoned  there, 
King  Ben's  first-born  immortal  heir — 

Apparent  to  the  pallet ; 
Orlando  weighs  his  cons  and  pros, 
Forgetting  quite  his  heedless  toes 

Are  in  the  Phoca's  gullet. 

D. 


CUTTING. 

[HE  world  is  not  a  perfect  one, 

All  women  are  not  wise  or  pretty, 
All  that  are  willing  are  not  won — 

More's  the  pity— more's  the  pity  ! 
"Playing  wall-flower's  rather  flat," 

L'Allegro  or  Penseroso — 
Not  that  women  care  for  that — 
But  oh  !  they  hate  the  slighting  beau  so  ! 

Delia  says  my  dancing's  bad — 

She's  found  it  out  since  I  have  cut  her ; 
She  says  wit  I  never  had — 

I  said  she  "  smelt  of  bread  and  butter." 
Mrs.  Milton  coldly  bows  — 

I  did  not  think  her  baby  "  cunning ;  " 
Gertrude  says  I've  little  "  NOUS  " — 

I  tired  of  her  atrocious  punning. 

Tom's  wife  says  my  taste  is  vile — 

I  condemned  her  macarony ; 
Miss  McLush,  my  flirt  awhile, 

Hates  me — I  preferred  her  crony ; 


CUTTING.  341 

Isabella,  Sarah  Anne, 

Fat  Estella,  and  one  other, 
Call  me  an  immoral  man — 

I  have  cut  their  drinking  brother. 

Thus  it  is— be  only  civil- 
Dance  with  stupid,  short  and  tall — 

Know  no  line  'twixt  saint  and  devil- 
Spend  your  wit  on  fools  and  all — 

Simper  with  the  milk-and-waters — 
Suffer  bores,  and  talk  of  caps — 

Trot  out  people's  awkward  daughters— 
You  may  scandal  'scape — perhaps  ! 

But  prefer  the  wise  and  pretty — 

Pass  Reserve  to  dance  with  Wit — 
Let  the  slight  be  e'er  so  petty. 

Pride  will  never  pardon  it. 
Woman  never  yet  refused 

Virtues  to  a  seeming  wooer — 
Woman  never  yet  abused 

Him  who  had  been  civil  to  her. 

H. 


THE  DINNER-PARTY. 

|OHNNY.  R  *  *  *  "  gave  a  dinner  last  night, 

The  best  I  have  tasted  this  season ; 
The  wine  and  the  wit  sparkled  bright, 
'Twas  a  frolic  of  soul  and  of  reason. 
For  the  guests  there  was  Cooper73  and  Kean  ;74 

Bishop  Hobart75  and  Alderman  Brasher,76 
Buchanan,77  that  foe  to  the  Queen, 
And  Sherred  the  painter  and  glazier. 

The  beef  had  been  warm,  it  is  true, 

But  when  we  sat  down  it  was  colder ; 
The  wine  when  we  entered  was  new ; 

When  we  drank  it,  'twas  six  hours  older. 
Mr.  Kean,  by-the-way,  he's  no  dunce ; 

His  plate  was  so  often  repeating. 
I  thought  he'd  a  genius  at  once 

Not  only  fo*  acting  but  eating. 

Mr.  Cooper,  a  sensible  man, 

Talked  much  of  his  scheme  of  rebuilding 
The  theatre  on  a  new  plan, 

With  fantastical  carving  and  gilding. 


THE  DINNER-PARTY.  343 

Said  he,  '*  I've  a  thought  of  my  own  : 

Of  the  people,  so  stupid  the  taste  is, 
I  could  fill  the  new  playhouse  in  June 

If  I  only  could  furnish  new  faces." 


In  addition  to  those  I  have  named, 

Harry  Cruger78  was  there  in  his  glory, 
That  ci-devant  jeitne  homme  so  famed 

In  Paris — but  that's  an  old  story. 
And  General  .Lewis, 79  by  Jove  ! 

With  two  vests,  and  a  new  fashioned  eye-glass, 
He  looked  like  the  young  god  of  love 

At  distance  beheld  through  a  spy-glass. 

I  have  read  my  first  stanza  again, 

And  find  that  for  once  I  have  erred : 
For  Robert  and,  Mat  were  the  men, 

Instead  of  Buchanan  and  Sherred. 
Two  Frenchmen,  the  best  I  have  met, 

At  home  in  bad  English  and  flummery, 
Were  there — just  to  make  up  the  set, 

Together  with  Master  Montgomery.80 

Jack  Nicholson  81  wanted  to  come 
With  his  pea-jacket  on,  but  the  ladies 

Compelled  him  to  leave  it  at  home ; 
So  he  wore,  as  becoming  his  trade  is, 


344  THE  DINNER-PARTY. 

Two  epaulets — one  on  each  arm, 

And  a  sword,  once  of  laurels  the  winner, 

Ever  ready,  in  case  of  alarm, 
At  carving  a  foe  or  a  dinner. 

Bishop  Hobart  said  grace  with  an  air 

'Twould  have  done  your  heart  good  to  have  seen  him, 
And  Lewis  so  sweetly  did  swear, 

You'd  have  thought  that  the  devil  was  in  him. 
And  Alderman  Brasher  began 

A  song,  but  he  could  not  go  through  it. 
When  Johnny  R  *  *  *  asks  me  again 

To  a  fdte— by  the  Lord,  I'll  go  to  it ! 

H. 


THE  NIGHTMARE. 


'  Sure  he  was  sent  from  heaven  express  to  be  the  pillar  of  the  State ; 
So  terrible  his  name,  'Clintonian*  nurses  frightened  children  with  it" 

TOM  THUMB. 


|  REAMING,  last  night,  of  Pierre  Van  Wyck» 

I  felt  the  nightmare  creeping  o'er  me ; 
In  vain  I  strove  to  speak  or  strike, 

The  horrid  form  was  still  before  me ; 
Till  panting — struggling  to  be  free, 

I  raised  my  weak  but  desperate  head, 

And  faintly  muttered  "  John  Targee  !  " 

When — with  a  howl — the  goblin  fled. 

1  waked  and  cried  in  glad  surprise : 

"  The  man  is  found  ordained  by  Fate 
To  break  our  bonds,  and  exorcise 

The  nightmare  of  the  sleeping  State. 
He'll  chase  the  demons  great  and  small ; 

They'll  sink  his  withering  gaze  before. 
Then  rouse  !  ye  Sachems  at  the  Hall, 

And  nominate  him  Governor. 

"  Up  with  the  name  on  Freedom's  cause, 
Inscribe  it,  Bucktails,  on  your  banner ; 


346  THE  NIGHTMARE. 

Fame's  pewter  trump  shall  sound  applause, 
And  blasts  from  party's  furnace  fan  her. 

Pledge  high  his  health  in  mugs  of  beer, 
And,  roaring  like  the  boisterous  sea, 

Thunder  in  Clinton's  frightened  ear, 

The  conquering  name  of  John  Targee.!  " 

D. 


THE   MODERN   HYDRA. 

|  HERE  is  a  beast  sublime  and  savage, 

The  Hydra  by  denomination  ; 
Well  doth  he  know  his  foes  to  ravage, 
And  barks  and  bites  to  admiration. 
Fox — wolf— cat — dog — of  each,  at  least,  he 

Has  a  full  share,  and  never  scants  'em ; 
But  what  is  strangest  in  this  beast,  he 

Can  make  new  heads  whene'er  he  wants  'em. 

But  when  our  Tammany  Alcides 

Had  tomahawked  his  head  political, 
Straight  from  the  bleeding  trunk,  out  slid  his 

Well-filled  noddle  scientifical. 
Another  comes — another !  see — 

They  rise  in  infinite  variety ; 
One  cries  aloud,  "  Free-school  trustee  !  " 

The  next  exclaims,  "  Humane  Society  !  " 

Behold  the  fourth — bewhiskered — big — 
A  warlike  cocked  hat  frowns  upon  it ; 

The  fifth  uprears  a  doctor's  wig, 

The  sixth  displays  the  judgment-bonnet. 


348  THE  MODERN  HYDRA 

Herculean  Noah  !  your  strength  you  waste, 
Reserve  your  furious  cuts  and  slashes, 

Till  Satan  stands  beside  the  beast 
With  red-hot  steel  to  sear  the  gashes. 

D. 


THE   TEA-PARTY. 

[HE  tea-urn  is  singing,  the  tea-cups  are  gay, 

And  the  fire  sparkles  bright  in  the  room  of  D.  K. 
For  the  first  time  these  six  months,  a  broom  has  been 

there, 

And  the  housemaid  has  brushed  every  table  and  chair ; 
Drugs,  minerals,  books,  are  all  hidden  from  view, 
And  the  five  shabby  pictures  are  varnished  anew ; 
There's  a  feast  going  on,  there's  the  devil  to  pay 
In  the  furnished  apartments  of  Doctor  D.  K.fc2 

What  magic  has  raised  all  this  bustle  and  noise, 
Disturbing  the  bachelor's  still  quiet  joys  ; 
A  pair  of  young  witches  have  doomed  them  to  death, 
They  are  distant  relations  to  those  in  Macbeth. 
Not  as  ugly,  'tis  true,  but  as  mischievous  quite, 
And  like  them  in  teasing  and  talking  delight ; 
This  morning  they  sent  him  a  billet  to  say, 
"To-night  we  take  tea  with  you,  Doctor  D.  K." 

There  is  Mrs.  J.  D.,83  in  her  high  glee  and  glory, 
And  E.  McC.,84  with  her  song  and  her  story; 


350  THE  TEA-PARTY. 

There's  a  smile  on  each  lip,  and  a  leer  on  each  brow, 
Arid  they  both  are  determined  to  kick  up  a  row. . 
They're  mistaken  for  once,  as  they'll  presently  see, 
For  D.  K.'s  drinking  whiskey  w^h  Langstaff  and  me : 
They'll  find  the  cage  there,  but  the  bird  is  away — 
Catch  a  weasel  asleep,  and  catch  Doctor  D.  K. 

H. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  GROCERS. 

|HE  knights  of  the  firkin  are  gathered  around, 

The  rag-idols'  rights  to  assert ; 
Each  gatherer  pricks  up  his  ears  at  the  sound, 
Town  rags  are  advancing  a  penny  a  pound, 
While  country  rags  sink  in  the  dirt. 

Aghast  stand  the  brokers — the  carrying- trade 

Is  lost  if  the  butter-boys  win — 
The  farmers  are  quaking,  the  worst  is  dismayed, 
Omnipotent  Fundable  trembles  afraid, 

And  Wall  Street  is  all  in  a  din. 

'Twasn't  so  when  the  banks  in  a  body  prepared 

To  cut  their  own  corporate  throats  ; 
And,  biting  their  thumbs  at  the  farmers,  declared 
To  the  thunderstruck  dealers  in  butter  and  lard, 
They  would  handle  no  more  of  their  notes. 

Oh,  Fundable  !  Fundable!  look  to  thine  own, 

Now,  now,  let  thy  management  shine  ; 
I  fear  the  young  Franklin  will  worry  thee  down, 
And  if  all  the  bad  paper  be  kicked  out  of  town, 

Dear  Fundable  !  where  will  be  thine  ? 

D. 


THE   KING   OF   THE   DOCTORS.85 

|OW  stately  yon  palace  uplifts  its  proud  head/6 
Where  Broadway  and  Barclay  Street  meet ; 
Abhorring  its  old-fashioned  tunic  of  red, 
It  shines  in  the  lustre  of  chromate  of  lead, 
And  its  doors  open — into  the  street ! 

No  longer  it  rings  to  the  merry  sleigh-bells, 
The  steeds'  gallant  neighings  are  o'er; 
Instead  of  the  pitchfork,  we  meet  with  scalpels, 
And  the  throne  of  his  medical  majesty  dwells 
Where  the  horse-trough  resided  before. 

Oh,  David  !  how  dreadful  and  dire  was  the  note, 

When  Rebellion  beleaguered  the  place, 
When  the  bull-dog  of  discord  unbolted  his  throat, 
And  the  hot  Digitalis 87  unbuttoned  his  coat, 
And  doubled  his  fist  in  your  face  ! 

Then  Syncope  seized  thee ;  all  wild  with  affright 

The  Lord  Chamberlain  cried  "  God  defend  ye!  " 
Mac  8B  swung  his  shillelah  in  hopes  of  a  fight, 
While  the  brave  Surgeon-General 89  exclaimed  in  de- 
light, 
"  Pugnatum  est  arte  medendi." 


THE  KING  OF  THE  DOCTORS.  353 

But  your  wars  are  all  ended,  you're  now  at  your  ease, 
The  Regents  are  bound  for  your  debts ; 

You  may  fleece  your  poor  students  as  much  as  you 
please, 

Tax  boldly,  matriculate,  double  your  fees, 
You  can  pay  off  all  scores  in  brevets. 

So  a  health  to  your  highness,  and  long  may  you  reign, 

O'er  subjects  obedient  and  true ; 
If  the  snaffle  won't  hold  them,  apply  the  curb-rein  ; 
And  if  ever  they  prance,  or  go  backward  again, 

May  you  horsewhip  them  all  black  and  blue  ! 

D. 


TO   THE   BARON  VON   HOFFMAN,80 

Morrison's  Hotel,  Dublin ,  June  20,   1823. 

|  ARE  WELL,  farewell  to  thee,  Baron  von  Hoff- 
man, 

Thus  warbled  a  creditor  over  his  wine, 
Of  unmeaning  faces  I've  gazed  on  enough,  man, 
But  never  on  one  half  as  stupid  as  thine. 

Oh,  gay  as  the  negro  who  trotted  behind  thee, 

How  light  was  thy  heart  till  thy  money  was  gone  ! 

But  when  all  was  gone,  'twas  the  devil  to  find  thee  ; 
The  nest  still  remained,  but  the  eagle  was  flown. 

Yet  long  upon  Harlem's  gray  rocks  and  green  high- 
lands 

Shall  Burnham91  and  Cato  remember  the  name 
Of  him  who  away  in  the  far  British  Islands 

Now  lights  his  cigar  at  the  blaze  of  his  fame. 

And  still  when  the  bell  at  the  Coffee-House  ringing 
Assembles,  of  brokers,  the  young  and  the  old, 

The  happiest  there  to  his  memory  bringing 
Thy  frolics,  shall  swear  when  thy  story  is  told. 


TO  THE  BARON  VON  HOFFMAN.  355 

And  Jacob,  the  tailor,  as  fondly  he  lingers 
O'er  the  leaves  of  his  ledger  by  night  and  by  day, 

Will  count  the  sums  due  him  from  thee  on  his  fingers, 
And  mournfully  turn  from  their  figures  away. 

Nor  shall  Carlo,92  beloved  of  thy  bosom,  forget  thee, 
In  his  merriest  hour  at  thy  name  he  will  start ; 

By  the  side  of  his  chaise  and  his  horses  he'll  set  thee, 
Embalmed  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  his  heart. 

Farewell,  farewell,  while  the  spirit  of  evil 
Has  power  in  a  creditor's  bosom,  we  swear 

To  be  with  thee  on  earth — if  thou  goest  to  the  devil, 
He  is  an  old  friend  of  ours,  and  will  visit  thee  there. 

Farewell,  be  it  ours  to  embitter  thy  pillow 
With  thistles  whose  wounds  are  eternal  and  deep, 

There  are  packets  of  letters  afloat  on  the  billow 

That  shall  poison  thy  whiskey  and  torture  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  hover  the  constable  gentry, 
Those  bloodhounds  of  law,  ever  thirsty  and  true — 

Worse  foes  than  the  Frenchmen  who  saw  you  a  sentry 
In  a  platoon  of  Dutchmen  at  red  Waterloo. 

We'll  dine  where  the  bailiffs  in  Bow  Street  are  drinking, 
And  bribe  all  their  clubs  to  be  aimed  at  thy  head  ; 

And  when  of  thy  snug  German  home  thou  art  thinking, 
Take  out  a  ca.  sa.  and  take  thee  out  of  bed. 

,6  H- 


A   LAMENT  FOR   GREAT  MEN   DEPARTED. 


Hung  be  the  heavens  with  black." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


HERE  is  a  gloom  on  every  brow, 
A  sadness  in  each  face  we  see ; 
The  City  Hall  is  lonely  now, 

The  Franklin  Bank  looks  wearily. 

The  Surgeons'  Hall  in  Barclay  Street, 

Wears  to  the  eye  a  ghastlier  hue  ! 
And  Staten  Island's  Summer-seat 

Has  lost  its  best  attractions  too  ! 

Well  may  we  mourn  a  stage-and-four 

(Our  curse  upon  the  rogue  that  drove  it !) 

From  out  our  city  lately  bore 
All  that  adorn,  and  grace,  and  love  it. 

Ah,  little  knew  each  scoundrel  horse 

How  much  they  vexed,  and  grieved,  and  marred  us  ; 
They  cared  not  sixpence  for  the  loss 

We  feel  in  Golden  and  Bogardus. 


A   LAMENT  FOR   GREAT  MEN  DEPARTED. 

And  Doctor  Mitchill,  LL.  D., 

And  Tompkins,  Lord  of  Staten  Island  ! 
Hushed  be  the  strain  of  mirth  and  glee, 

'Twere  reason  now  to  laugh  or  smile. 

Long  has  proud  Albany,  elate, 
Reared  her  two  steeples93  high  in  air, 

And  boasted  that  she  ruled  the  State, 
Because  the  Governor  lives  there. 

But  loftier  now  will  be  her  tone 
To  know,  within  her  walls  are  met 

The  brightest  gems  that  ever  shone 
Upon  a  city's  coronet. 

Though  heavy  is  our  load  of  pain 
To  feel  that  Fate  has  so  bereft  us, 

Some  consolations  yet  remain, 
For  Dicky  Riker  still  is  left  us  ! 

And  Hope,  with  smile  and  gesture  proud, 
Points  to  a  day  of  triumph  nigh, 

When,  like  a  sunbeam  from  the  cloud, 
That  dims  awhile  an  April  sky, 

Our  champions  shall  again  return, 

Their  pockets  with  new  honors  crowded, 


35  g        A   LAMENT  FOR  GREAT  MEN  DEPARTED. 

That  every  heart  may  cease  to  mourn, 
And  hats  no  more  in  crape  be  shrouded. 

The  Park  shall  throng  with  merry  feet, 
And  boys  and  beauties  hasten  there, 

To  place  the  new  Judge  on  his  seat ! 
And  hail  the  great  Bogardus,  Mayor  ! 

a 


THE   GREAT   MORAL  PICTURE.04 

["  Resolved  that  this  Board  will  visit  the  Academy  of  Arts,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  viewing  a  painting,  now  on  exhibition  there,  from  the  pencil  of  Mr. 
Rembrandt  Peale,  and  that  it  be  recommended  to  our  fellow-citizens  gener- 
ally to  go  also."] 

Extract  from  the  Minutes  of  the  Common  Council,  Dec.  26,  1820. 

[EN  the  wild  waters  from  the  deluged  earth 
Retired,  and  Nature  woke  to  second  birth, 
And  the  first  rainbow  met  the  patriarch's  gaze, 
In  the  blue  west — a  pledge  of  better  days ; 
What  crowded  feelings  of  delight  were  his 
In  that  bright  hour  of  hope  and  happiness  ! 
What  tears  of  rapture  glistened  in  his  eye, 
His  early  tears  forgot— his  life's  long  agony  ! 

So  did  the  heart  of  Mr.  Rembrandt  Peale, 
The  "moral  picture-painter,"  beat  and  feel, 
When  by  the  Mayor  and  Aldermen  was  passed 
That  vote  which  made  his  talent  known  at  last, 
And  those  wise  arbiters  of  taste  and  fame 
Pronounced  him  worthy  of  his  Christian  name. 

Long  did  he  linger  anxiously,  in  vain, 
Beside  his  painting  in  the  classic  fane 
Of  science  (where,  arranged  by  Scudder's  hand, 
The  curiosities  of  every  land, 


360  THE  GREAT  MORAL  PICTURE. 

From  Babel  brickbats,  and  the  Cashmere  goat, 
Down  to  the  famous  Knickerbocker  boat, 
Applause  and  wonder  from  the  gazer  seek, 
Aided  by  martial  music  once  a  week)  — 
Long  did  he  linger  there,  and  but  a  few 
Odd  shillings  his  "  Great  Moral  Picture  "  drew. 

In  vain  the  newspapers  its  beauties  told, 

In  vain  they  swore  'twas  worth  its  weight  in  gold, 

In  vain  invoked  each  patriotic  spirit, 

And  talked  of  native  genius,  power,  and  merit ; 

In  vain  the  artist  threatened  to  lay  by 

His  innate  hope  of  immortality, 

Grow  rich  by  painting  merely  human  faces, 

Nor  longer  stay  and  starve  in  public  places — 

All  would  not  do — his"  work  remained  unseen, 

Taste,  Beauty,  Fashion,  talked  of  Mr.  Kean ; 

But  of  the  Moral  Picture  not  a  word 

From  lips  of  woman  or  of  man  was  heard. 

The  scene  has  changed,  thanks  to  the  Corporation, 
And  Peale  has  now  a  city's  approbation. 
"Resolved,"  the  Council  Records  say,  "  that  we 
Untie  the  purse-strings  of  the  Treasury, 
Take  out  just  five-and-twenty  cents  a  head, 
And  by  the  Mayor  in  grave  procession  led, 
Visit  the  Academy  of  Arts,  and  then, 
Preceded  by  the  Mayor — walk  back  again." 


THE  GREAT  MORAL  PICTURE.  361 

Hide  your  diminished  heads,  ye  sage  Reviewers  ! 
Thank  Heaven,  the  day  is  o'er  with  you  and  yours 
No  longer  at  your  shrines  will  Genius  bow, 
For  mayors  and  aldermen  are  critics  now. 
Alike  to  them  the  Crichtons  of  their  age, 
The  painter's  canvas,  and  the  poet's  page, 
From  high  to  low,  from  law  to  verse  they  stoop, 
Judges  of  Sessions,  Science,  Arts,  and  Soup. 

Time  was,  when  Dr.  MitchilPs  word  was  law, 

When  monkeys,  monsters,  whales,  and  Esquimaux, 

Asked  but  a  letter  from  his  ready  hand, 

To  be  the  theme  and  wonder  of  the  land. 

That  time  is  past, — henceforth  each  showman's  doom 

Must  be  decided  in  the  Council  Room  ; 

A.nd  there  the  city's  guardians  will  decree 

An  artist's  or  an  author's  destiny, 

Pronounce  the  fate  of  poem,  song,  or  sonnet, 

And  shape  the  fashion  of  a  lady's  bonnet ; 

Gravely  determine  when,  and  how,  and  where, 

Brsted  shall  write,  and  Saunders  shall  cut  hair, 

'Till  even  the  very  buttons  of  a  coat 

B^  settled,  like  assessment  laws,  by  vote. 

H. 


GOVERNOR  CLINTON'S   SPEECH 

At  the  opening  of  the  New-York  Legislature  in  January ,  1825 

]O  Tallmadge95  of  the  Upper  House, 

And  Crolius 96  of  the  lower, 
After  "  non  nobis,  Domine," 
Thus  saith  the  Governor : 

It  seems  by  general  admission, 

That,  as  a  nation,  we  are  thriving ; 
Settled  in  excellent  condition, 

Bargaining,  building,  and  beehiving  ; 
That  each  one  fearlessly  reclines 

Beneath  his  "  fig-tree  and  his  vines  " 
(The  dream  of  philosophic  man), 

And  all  is  quiet  as  a  Sunday, 
From  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 

From  Beersheba  to  Dan. 

I've  climbed  my  country's  loftiest  tree, 
And  reached  its  highest  bough,  save  one. 

Why  not  the  highest  ? — blame  not  me  ; 
"What  man  dare"  do,  I've  done. 


GOVERNOR   CLINTON'S  SPEECH.  -53 

And  though  thy  city — Washington  ! 

Still  mocks  my  eagle  wing  and  eye, 
Yet  is  there  joy  upon  a  throne 

Even  here  at  Albany. 
For  though  but  second  in  command, 

Far  floats  my  banner  in  the  breeze, 
A  Captain-General's  on  the  land, 

An  Admiral  on  the  seas. 
And  if  Ambition  can  ask  more, 
My  very  title — Governor — 

A  princely  pride  creates,  . 

Because  it  gives  me  kindred  claims 
To  greatness  with  those  glorious  names 

A  Sancho  and  a  Yates  ! 

As  party  spirit  has  departed, 

This  life  to  breathe  and  blast  no  more, 
The  patriot  and  the  honest-hearted 

Shall  form  my  diplomatic  corps. 
The  wise,  the  wittiest,  the  good, 

Selected  from  my  band  of  yore, 
My  own  devoted  band,  who've  stood 
Beside  me,  stemming  faction's  flood 

Like  rocks  on  Ocean's  shore — 
Men,  who,  if  now  the  field  were  lost, 

Again  would  buckle  sword  and  mail  on. 
Followed  by  them,  themselves  a  host, 
Haines,97  Hurtell,  Herring,  Pell,  and  Post, 
Judge  Miller,  Mumford,  and  Van  Wyck, 


364  GOVERNOR   CLINTON'S  SPEECH. 

'Tis  said  I  look  extremely  like 

A  Highland  chieftain  with  his  tail  on. 

A  clear  and  comprehensive  view 
Of  every  thing  in  art  or  nature, 

In  this,  my  opening  speech,  is  due 
To  an  enlightened  Legislature. 

I  therefore  have  arranged  with  care, 
In  orderly  classification, 

The  following  subjects,  which  should  share 
•  Your  most  mature  deliberation  : 

Physicians,  senators,  and  makers 

Of  patent  medicines  and  machines, 
The  train-bands  and  the  Shaking  Quakers. 

Forts,  colleges,  and  quarantines  ; 
Debts,  cadets,  coal-mines,  and  canals, 

Salt — the  Comptroller's  next  report, 
Reform  within  our  prison  walls, 

The  customs  and  the  Supreme  Court ; 
Delinquents,  juvenile  and  gray, 

Schools,  steamboats,  justices  of  peace 
Republics  of  the  present  day, 

And  those  of  Italy  and  Greece ; 
Militia-officers,  and  they 

Who  serve  in  the  police — 
Madmen  and  laws,  a  great  variety, 
The  horticultural  society, 


GOVERNOR  CLINTON'S  SPEECH.  365 

The  rate  of  interests  and  of  tolls, 
The  numbering  of  tax-worthy  souls, 

Roads — and  a  mail  three  times  a  week, 
From  where  the  gentle  Erie  rolls 

To  Conewango  Creek. 

These  are  a  few  affairs  of  state 

On  which  I  ask  your  reasoning  powers, 

High  themes  for  study  and  debate, 
For  closet  and  for  caucus  hours. 

This  is  my  longest  speech,  but  those 

Who  feel,  that,  like  a  cable's  strength 

Its  power  increases  with  its  length, 
Will  weep  to  hear  its  close. 
Weep  not,  my  next  shall  be  as  long, 
And  that,  like  this,  enbalmed  in  song, 
Will  be,  when  two  brief  years  are  told, 

Mine  own  no  longer,  but  the  Nation's, 
With  all  my  speeches,  new  and  old, 
And  what  is  more,  the  place  I  hold, 

Together  with  its  pay  and  rations. 

H. 


NO  TES. 


NOTES. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

(1)  Page  13. — MARCO  BOZZARIS,  one  of  the  best  and  bravest  of  the  mod- 
ern Greek  chieftains.     He  fell  in  a  night  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at 
Laspi,  the  site  of  the  ancient  Plataea,  August  20,  1823,  and  expired  in  the 
moment  of  victory. 

(2)  Page  18. — ALNWICK  CASTLE,  Northumberlandshire,  a  seat  of  the 
Puke  of  Northumberland.     Written  in  October,    1822,   after  visiting  the 
"  Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race." 

(3)  Page  20. — From  him  -wJw  once  his  standard  set. — One  of  the  an- 
cestors of  the  Percy  family  was  an  Emperor  at  Constantinople. 

(4)  Page  20. — Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington. — The  late  duke. 
He  commanded  a  detachment  of  the  British  army,  in  the  affair  at  Lexington 
and  Concord,  in  1775. 

(5)  Page  21. — From  royal  Berwick' s  beach  of  sand. — Berwick  was  for- 
merly a  principality.     Richard  II.  was  styled  "  King  of  England,  France, 
and*Ireland,  and  Berwick-upon-Tweed." 

(6)  Page  30. — WYOMING. — The  allusion  in  the  following  stanzas  can  be 
understood   by  those  only  who  have  read  Campbell's  beautiful  poem, 
"  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  :  "  but  who  has  not  read  it  ? 

(7)  Page  46. — "  RED  JACKET  "  appeared  originally  in  1828,  soon  after 
the  publication  of  Mr.  Cooper's  "  NOTIONS  OF  THE  AMERICANS." 

(8)  Page  57. — MAGDALEN. — Written  in  1823,  for  a  love-stricken  young 
officer  on  his  way  to  Greece.     The  reader  will  have  the  kindness  to  pre- 
sume that  he  died  there. 

(9)  Page  87. — Lieut.  ALLEN. — He  commanded  the  U.  S.  sloop-of-wai 
Alligator,  and  was  mortally  wounded  on  the  gth  of  November,  1822,  in  an 


370 


NOTES. 


action  with  pirates,  near  Matanzas,  in  the  Island  of  Cuba.     His  mother,  a 
few  hours  after  hearing  of  his  death,  died — literally  of  a  broken  heart. 

(10)  Page  89. — WALTER  BOWNE,  then,  and  for  two  years  previous,  a 
Senator  at  Albany,  and  member  of  the  Council  of  Appointment.  He  was 
afterward  Mayor  of  New  York,  where  he  died  in  August,  1846. 

(n)  Page  93. — During  the  second  war  with  Great  Britain,  Mr.  Halleck 
joined  a  New- York  infantry  company,  "  Swartwout's  gallant  corps,  the 
Iron  Grays,"  as  he  afterward  wrote  in  "  Fanny,"  and  excited  their  martial 
ardor  by  this  spirited  ode.  Among  the  few  survivors  of  this  much-admired 
corps,  are  Gouverneur  S.  Bibby,  Stephen  Cambreleng,  Dr.  Edward  Dela- 
field,  Hickson  W.  Field,  James  W.  Gerard,  and  Charles  W.  Sandford. 

(12)  Page  96. — CONTOIT'S  GARDEN,  open  to  the  public  under  the  au- 
spices of  a  Frenchman  of  that  name,  on  the  west  side  of  Broadway,  between 
Leonard  and  Franklin  Streets. 

(13)  Page  96. — MADAME  SAINT  MARTIN,  the  proprietress  of  a  milliner's 
and  perfumery  shop  on  Broadway,  next  door  to  the  Garden. 

(14)  Page  97. — The  "  OPERA  FRANCAIS,"  a  name  given  during  the 
summer  season,  while  occupied  by  a  troupe  of  French  actors  from  New 
Orleans,  to  the  Chatham  Garden  Theatre  of  Mr.  Palmo,  situated  on  the 
west  side  of  Chatham  Street,  between  Duane  and  Pearl.     The  "  Opera  " 
was  a  place  of  fashionable  resort,  and  patronized  particularly  by  the  distin- 
guished personages  named  Mrs.  President  J.  Q.  Adams  and  Joseph  Bona- 
parte, ex-King  of  Spain.     The  three  "  danseuses"  mentioned  were  among 
the  principal  performers  attached  to  the  Opera. 

(15)  Page  97. — "  SWAMP  PLACE,"  a  name  given,  either  in  jest  or  ear- 
nest, to  a  plot  of  ground  in  the  neighborhood  of  Jacob  and  Ferry  Streets, 
near  which  some  medical  Columbus  of  the  time  had  found  or  fancied  a 
mineral  spring  of  imperishable  merit.     Unfortunately,  it  proved  itself  to  be 
less  than  a  "  nine  days'  wonder,"  by  vanishing  one  morning,  like  a  dream. 

(16)  Page  98. — The  names  of  John  Quincy    Adams,   Henry  Clay, 
De  Witt  Clinton,  Andrew  Jackson,  and  Daniel  Webster,  which  occur  on 
this  page,  belong  to  history. 

(17)  Page  98. — The  "ANNUAL  REGISTER,"  edited  by  Joseph  Blunt,  a 
young  lawyer  of  ability.      The  pub'icaticn  then  in  progress,  was  soon  after 
discontinued. 


NOTES. 


FANNY. 


371 


Stanza  i.— "  FANNY.  "^Of  this  young  lady  and  her  worthy  father,  to 
whose  exemplary  and  typical  career  the  author  was  indebted  for  the  theme 
of  his  story,  we  are  not  permitted  to  reveal  more  £han  that  they  wish  to  be 
known  and  remembered  only  in  the  words  from  Milton,  on  the  title-page, 
among— 

"  Gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  in  the  plighted  clouds." 

Stanza  6,  etc. — Doctors  MITCHILL,  HOSACK,  and  FRANCIS,  then  (1819) 
eminent  physicians  in  New  York,  highly  distinguished,  not  only  in  their 
profession,  and  as  authors  of  popular  works  connected  with  medicine  and 
general  knowledge,  but  as  active  and  useful  leaders  in  the  social,  literary,  and 
scientific  institutions  of  the  city.  Doctor  Mitchill,  moreover,  had  won  the 
name  of  a  philosopher  by  his  frequent  discoveries,  more  or  less  important,  in 
geology  and  other  conjectural  sciences. 

Stanza  8,  etc. — JAMES  K.  PAULDING,  one  of  the  best  and  most  popular 
of  early  American  authors.  The  quotation  is  from  his  poem,  "The  Back- 
woodsman," then  recently  published.  He  afterward  rose,  or  fell,  from 
literature  to  politics,  and  became  navy  agent  at  New  York,  and  Secretary  of 
the  Navy  during  President  Van  Buren's  administration. 

Stanza  13. — The  "  MODERN  SOLOMON,"  a  nom*  de  plume  given  to  Mr. 
Lang  by  the  pleasantry  of  his  brethren  of  the  press.  The  front  door  of  his 
office  was  surmounted  by  the  figure-head  of  his  assumed  prototype,  Doctor 
Franklin,  mentioned  in  stanza  49.  The  bust  and  statue  therein  named  as 
specimens  of  the  fine  arts  in  America  at  the  period  were  to  be  seen,  the  one 
in  plaster  at  the  Academy  of  Arts  (stanza  51),  the  one  in  wax  at  Scudder's 
Museum  (stanza  68).  Poor  McDonald  Clarke,  the  mad  poet  of  New  York, 
having  been  called  in  Lang's  paper  a  person  with  "  zig-zag  brains,"  imme- 
diately responded  in  the  following  neat  epigram  : 

"  I  can  tell  Johnny  Lang,  in  the  way  of  a  laugh, 
In  reply  to  his  rude  and  unmannerly  scrawl, 
That  in  my  humble  sense  it  is  better  by  half 
To  have  brains  that  are  zig-zag  than  to  have  none  at  all." 

Stanza  16,  etc. — CADWALLADER  D.  GOLDEN,  then  Mayor  of  the  city, 
before  whose  door,  in  accordance  with  immemorial  usage,  two  prominent 
lamps  were  placed,  in  token  of  his  magisterial  position,  to  remain  during 
and  after  his  mayoralty.  His  residence,  and  the  office  of  Mr.  Lang,  the 
editor  of  the  New- York  Gazette  (see  stanzas  n  and  49),  were  in  the  neigh- 
borhood  of  Pearl  Street  and  Hanover  Square. 

Stanza  23. — DOMINICK  LYNCH,  a  popular  importer  of  French  wines,  who 
ranked  among  the  prominent  merchants  of  the  city.  He  was  well  known 


372  NOTES. 

in  social  circles  by  his  elegant  entertainments  at  his  residence,  No.  i  Green- 
wich Street  One  of  his  sons  sang  Moore's  melodies  with  taste  and  deep 
feeling. 

Stanza  25. — JOHN  BRISTED,  an  English  gentleman,  then  recently  arrived 
in  America.  He  was  a  graduate  of  Oxford  University,  a  highly  accom- 
plished scholar,  and  the  author  of  several  ably-written  works  on  various 
topics,  published  in  New  York,  among  them  the  one  entitled  "The 
Resources  of  Great  Britain  in  Time  of  Peace,"  alluded  to  in  stanza  141. 
He  married  a  daughter  of  John  Jacob  Astor. 

Stanza  29. — Monsieur  GUILLE,  an  aeronaut,  recently  from  France,  whose 
balloon  ascensions,  then  a  rare  and  exciting  exhibition,  had  proved  a  failure. 

Stanza  32. — DAVID  GELSTON,  the  collector  of  the  customs. 

Stanza  38,  etc.— DE  WITT  CLINTON,  then  Governor  of  the  State  of  New 
York;  MARTIN  VAN  BUREN,  then  its  Attorney-General,  afterward  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States ;  and  DANIEL  D.  TOMPKINS,  Vice-President  of  the 
United  States.  These  prominent  and  popular  statesmen  require  no  intro- 
duction to  the  reader. 

Stanza  39,  etc. — The  "NATIONAL  ADVOCATE,"  a  daily  newspaper,  con- 
ducted by  Mordecai  M.  Noah,  a  veteran  editor,  highly  distinguished  in  the 
political  strife  of  words,  for  wielding,  alike  powerfully  and  playfully,  the  pen 
of  a  "ready  writer."  As  the  champion  of  a  party  (his  party,  for  the  time 
being),  he  was  a  faithful  friend  and  a  formidable  antagonist.  He  was 
favorably  known  as  the  author  of  an  interesting  book  of  travels  in  Europe, 
etc.,  and  of  several  dramas  successful  on  the  stage. 

"  PELL'S  POLITE  REVIEW." — A  political  pamphlet,  by  Ferris  Pell,  an 
enterprising  young  lawyer  and  politician. 

Stanza  47.— CHRISTIAN  BAEHR,  one  of  the  fashionable  tailors  of  the 
period,  and  a  colonel  in  the  militia. 

Stanza  51.— S.  &  M.  ALLEN  and  WAITE  &  Co.  (see  stanza  55),  dealers 
in  lottery  tickets. 

"  THE  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS." — A  society  of  artists  and  amateurs,  among 
whose  presiding  officers  and  patrons,  Doctor  Hosack,  John  G.  Bogart  (see 
stanza  49),  and  Colonel  Trumbull,  the  celebrated  painter,  were  honorably 
conspicuous.  On  the  formation,  soon  after,  of  the  present  "  National  Acad- 
emy of- the  Arts  of  Design,"  it  ceased  to  exist 

Stanza  52. — "CULLEN'S  MAGNESIAN  SHOP." — A  soda-water,  etc., 
establishment,  on  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Park  Place,  rivalled  in  its 
embellishments  by  the  cottage  of  Mr.  Gautier,  at  Hoboken,  near  the  ferry. 

"The  EUTERPIAN  SOCIETY." — An  association  of  amateur  musicians 
occasionally  giving  public  concerts. 


NOTES.  373 

Stanza  53.— Doctor  WM.  JAMES  McNEVEN.— One  of  the  ablest  and 
purest  of  the  banished  Irish  patriots  of  '98.  His  excellent  personal  charac- 
ter,  without  reference  to  political  antecedents,  insured  him  a  warm  recep- 
tion in  New  York,  and  soon  placed  him  among  the  most  cherished  of  her 
adopted  citizens.  His  monument  stands  in  St  Paul's  Churchyard,  New 
York,  near  that  of  his  friend  Thomas  Addis  Emmet 

Doctor  QUACKENBOS,  in  spite  of  his  name,  a  young  physician  in  good 
repute. 

"  THE  FORUM." — A  society  of  young  and  promising  lawyers  and  others 
emulating  the  "  Speculative  Society  "  of  Edinburgh.  Their  meetings  for 
debate  weie  public,  and  drew  flattering  and  fashionable  audiences. 

Stanza  54.— Doctor  JOHN  L.  GRAHAM.— The  Nestor  of  the  New-York 
bar.  His  legal  merits  had  gained  him  the  diploma  of  Doctor  of  Laws.  He 
was  among  the  last  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  "  old  school,"  and  remarkable 
for  the  courtesy  and  dignity  of  his  manners. 

Stanza  55. — Doctor  GEORGE  T.  HORNE. — An  advertising  physician  of 
New- York  City.  The  motto  at  the  head  of  his  advertisements  was  "  Salus 
Populi  Supremo.  Lex." 

Stanza  60. — SAMUEL  WOODWORTH,  etc. — Popular  authors  of  the  period, 
then  and  previously  beginning  an  honorable  literary  career. 

Stanzas  64  and  65. — "  GENERAL  LAIGHT'S  BRIGADE  OF  STATE  MILITIA." 
— A  "corps  d'armee"  quite  distinct  from  the  uniformed  volunteer  com- 
panics  of  the  time,  and  one  that  Falstaff  "  would  not  march  through  Coven- 
try with."  Its  officers  were  the  young  aristocracy  of  the  city,  but  its 
soldiers  were  men  or  boys,  who,  either  from  choice  or  necessity,  declined 
paying  a  fine  of  twenty-five  dollars  for  non-attendance  on  parade  days — 
three  times  a  year — the  penalty  imposed  by  the  then  existing  militia  law. 

Stanza  66. — Monsieur  CHARLES. — The  travelling  magician  and  conjurer 
of  the  time. 

AMBROSE  SPENCER. — Then  Chief  Justice  of  the  State,  a  judge  uni- 
versally respected  for  integrity  and  ability  in  the  discharge  of  his  official 
duties,  but  accused  by  his  political  opponents  of  exercising  in  party  politics 
a  controlling  power  injurious  to  their  interests. 

MEAD'S  "  WALL  STREET,"  a  drama  whose  characters  were  designed  tt 
be  played  by  STOCK  actors  only. 

Stanza  68. — Doctor  JOHN  GRISCOM. — A  highly-esteemed  Quaker  phy- 
sician then  delivering  lectures  upon  chemistry,  etc.  His  office  was  in  the 
building  called  the  "  Old  Aims-House,"  situated  in  the  rear  of  the  City  Hall, 
facing  Chambers  Street  Its  rooms  facing  Broadway  were  occupied  by 
the  museum  of  John  Scudder,  the  "illustrious  predecessor"  of  the 


374  NOTES. 

late  world-renowned  showman  P.  T.  Barnum.     Among  its  attractions  was 
the  band  of  music  commemorated  in  stanza  175. 

Stanza  71. — TAMMANY  HALL,  comer  of  Nassau  and  Frankfort  Streets. 
— Then  the  home  of  the  "  Saint  Tammany  Society,"  whose  members  still 
claim  to  represent,  par  excellence,  the  Democratic  party  of  the  country  in  its 
pristine  purity.  Their  once  famous  appellation  of  "Bucktails"  (see  stanza 
83),  was  derived  from  their  custom  of  wearing,  when  on  duty,  a  deer's  tail  in 
their  hats  as  a  badge  of  membership.  Among  their  leading  Sachems  were 
William  Mooney  (stanza  78)  and  John  Targee  (see  stanzas  72,  etc).  The 
latter  gentleman,  from  his  steadfast  refusal  to  accept  a  money-making  office 
in  the  gift  of  the  society,  an  example  of  self-denial  previously  unrecorded  in 
their  annals,  became  a  sort  of  mythical  personage,  like  Shakespeare's 
"  Cuckoo  in  June,"  "  ne'er  seen  but  wondered  at."  The  fact,  however, 
enlarged  upon  in  stanzas  73,  etc.,  of  his  political  and  musical  intimacy  with 
Tom  Moore,  is  one  that,  in  the  newspaper  phrase,  wants  confirmation. 
The  Tammany  Hall  of  1819  is  now  known  as  the  Sun  Building,  the 
Society  having  erected  a  more  spacious  edifice  in  Fourteenth  Street,  for- 
mally opened  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1868.  Here  the  Democratic  Convention 
was  held  which  nominated  Horatio  Seymour,  of  New  York,  for  President, 
and  Francis  P.  Plair,  Jr.,  of  Missouri,  as  their  candidate  for  the  Vice-Presi- 
dency of  the  United  States. 

Song,  Page  124. — WILLIAM  B.  COZZENS. — Then  the  proprietor  of  the 
"  Tammany  Hall  Hotel " — more  recently  of  the  princely  establishment  at 
West  Point  known  by  his  name,  and  now  conducted  by  his  son. 

Stanza  81.  —  SYLVANUS  MILLER.  —  An  active  and  influential  party 
leader,  for  many  years  surrogate  of  the  city,  and  a  gentleman  who  was 
never  seen  without  his  inseparable  companion — a  cigar.  As  a  smoker,  he 
even  excelled  General  Grant. 

Stanza  84. — Judge  SKINNER  and  Mr.  MC!NTYRE. — Members  of  the 
State  Senate.  The  one  a  political  opponent  of  Governor  Clinton,  the 
other  of  ex-Governor  Daniel  D.  Tompkins. 

Stanza  86.— HENRY  MEIGS  and  PETER  H.  WENDOVER.— Members  of 
Congress  from  the  city.  .  The  former  one  of  the  original  founders  of  the 
"  American  Institute,"  and  for  a  long  time  its  secretary.  To  the  latter  is 
owing  the  invention  of  the  present  legal  arrangement  of  the  stars  and 
stripes  in  the  United  States  flag. 

Stanza  90. Captain  RILEY'S  book. — A  somewhat  Munchausen-like 

narrative  of  his  shipwreck  on  the  coast  of  Africa. 

Stanza  91.— "  DELAPLAINE'S  REPOSITORY."— A  biographical  work 
published  in  Philadelphia,  valuable  for  its  engraved  portraits  of  the  most 
distinguished  men  of  the  day. 


NOTES.  375 

Stanza  92. — DANIEL  D.  TOMPKINS. — Then  a  resident  of  Staten  Island. 

Stanza  93. — "  THE  TURTLE  CLUB." — From  New  York,  whose  frequent 
open-air  festivities,  at  Hoboken,  were  devoted  to  punch  and  politics. 

Stanza  107. — SIMON  THOMAS. — A  man  of  color,  the  orthodox  and  omni- 
present  caterer  for  fashionable  dinner  and  supper  parties. 

Stanza  114. — THOMAS  WHALE. — An  eminent  dancing-master,  and  a  fine 
specimen  of  the  old-school  gentleman.  He  always  appeared  in  knee- 
breeches  and  silk  stockings,  and  was  a  constant  reader  at  the  Society  Li- 
brary, of  which  venerable  institution  he  was  a  member. 

Stanza  116. — EDMUND  SIMPSON  and  JAMES  W.  WALLACK,  managers  of 
the  city  theatres,  and  actors  highly  esteemed,  then  and  now. 

Stanza  118. — The  "CROAKERS " — see  note,  page  377. 

"  WOODWORTH'S  CABINET."— A  periodical  conducted  by  the  poet  of  the 
name. 

The  "NEW  SALMAGUNDI." — A  continuation,  by  James  K.  Paulding, 
of  a  work  under  a  similar  title,  published  in  1808,  the  joint  production  of 
himself  and  his  friend  Washington  Irving. 

Stanza  124.  —  Madame  BOUQUET  and  Monsieur  PARDES$US. — The 
fashionable  milliner  and  ladies'  slipper-maker  of  the  day. 

Stanza  138.— Mr.  R.  P.  LAWRENCE.— A  coach-maker  in  John  Street. 
Stanza  140. — DE  WITT  CLINTON. — Governor  of  the  State  of  New  York. 

Stanza  141. — "  EASTBURN'S  ROOMS,"  in  the  building  occupied  by  James 
Eastburn  &  Co.,  booksellers  and  publishers,  on  the  corner  of  Broadway 
and  Pine  Street — a  favorite  resort  of  men  of  letters  and  leisure.  Bishop 
Eastburn,  of  the  Episcopal  Church,  and  James  W.  Eastburn,  the  young 
poet,  who  died  at  twenty-two,  are  sons  of  the  worthy  bookseller,  for  whom 
Mr.  Halleck  entertained  a  great  friendship,  and  to  whose  reading-room  he 
was  a  constant  visitor. 

Stanza  144. — The  "  LYCEUM  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY." — An  association 
of  men  of  science,  and  patronized  by  the  most  highly  cultivated  of  the  city 
scholars,  still  existing. 

Stanza  172. — The  "COUNCIL  OF  APPOINTMENT"  at  Albany. — Then  an 
important  department  of  the  State  government,  abolished  upon  the  revision 
of  the  Constitution  in  1821,  having  become  a  notorious  political  machine. 

Stanza  173. — Colonel  AARON  BURR,  then  Vice-President  of  the  United 
States,  the  theme  of  one  of  the  most  interesting  episodes  in  American 
history. 


376 


NOTES. 


THE    RECORDER. 


(1)  Page  161.— RICHARD  RIKER.— The  Recorder  of  the  city  at  the  date 
of  the  poem.     A  gentleman  of  great  merit,  who  had  previously  filled,  and 
continued  to  fill  through  life,  offices  of  the  highest  trust.     In  the  poem  he 
is  sportively  made  to  appear,  not  in  his  excellent  and  estimable  personal 
character,  but  as  the  "burden  of  a  merry  song  "--the  embodied  represent- 
ative of  a  party  leader,  and  of  party  men  in  general,  in  their  proverbial 
obnoxiousness.     Like  the  scape-goat  of  antiquity,  he  is  forced  to  bear  the 
sins  of  others,  not  his  own,  and  is  "sent  out  into  the  wilderness  of  criticism," 
with  a  heavy  load  of  them  upon  his  innocent  shoulders.     In  the  duel 
alluded  to  on  page  162,  which  took  place  early  in  his  political  career,  the 
result  of  a  political  difference  of  opinion  between  him  and  his  antagonist, 
General  Robert  Swartwout,  Mr.  Riker  was  slightly  wounded. 

(2)  Page  165. — A   sculptor,    rather  mechanical  than  artistic,  famous, 
for  a  time,  for  moulding  the  busts  of  notorious  men  into  the  immortality  of 
plaster  in  lieu  of  marble. 

(3)  Page  165. — "GARDEN  FLOWERS." — An  allusion  to  those  of  Mr. 
William  Prince,  near  Flushing,  Long  Island. 

(4)  Page  169. — A  favorite  French  air.     In  English,  "  Where  can  one  be 
more  happy  than  in  the  bosom  of  one's  family  ?  " 

(5)  Page    169.— NATHANIEL  PITCHER,  then  Governor   of  the  State, 
accused,  in  like  manner,  of  being  under  the  political   control  of  Martin 
Van  Buren,  then  on  his  way  to  the  presidency  of  the  United  States. 

(6)  Page  169. — "BURGUNDY  AND  BUSINESS." — Mr.  Riker  was  a  direc- 
tor in  the  Tradesmen's  Bank,  and  "  ex  cffitio  "  a.  visitor  to  the  Sing-Sing 
Prison,   the    Bellevue    Hospital,   etc.,    and    was    accused,   by  his  party 
opponents,  of  making  the  civic  and  social  meetings  there,  of  himself  and 
his  colleagues,  subservient  to  party  purposes. 

(7)  Page  169. — The  "  PEWTER  MUG." — The  sign  conspicuous  over  the 
door  of  a  tavern  in  Frankfort  Street,  in  the  rear  of  Tammany  Hall,  the 
frequent  resort  of  politicians  in  general,  and  of  the  Tammany-Hall  party  in 
particular. 

(8)  Page  170. — An  allusion  to  Philip  Hone,  then  the  LATE   Mayor  of 
the  city,  recently,  by  the  party  rule  of  rotation,  displaced  from  an  office  in 
which  for  several  preceding  years  he  had  won,  by  his  conduct  as  an  upright 
magistrate,   and  a  noble  and  generous  man,    "honor,   love,   obedience, 
troops  of  friends,"  from  the  highest  as  well  as  from  the  humblest  of  his  con- 
stituents. 

(9)  Page  171. — HILLHOUSE,   BRYANT,  and   HALLECK. — Three  names 


NOTES.  377 

honestly  drawn  out  from  a  lottery  comprising  those  of  the  thirty-seven  city 
poets,  and  impartially  representing  the  whole  lot  Where  the  writings  ol 
all  were  of  equal  value,  choice  was  impossible,  and  chance  the  only  arbiter 
except  the  account-sales  of  their  several  publishers — a  class  of  accountants 
whose  hieroglyphics  are  proverbially  difficult  to  decipher. 

(10)  Page  172.— STEPHEN  ALLEN,  BENJAMIN  BAILEY,  and  JOHN  TAR- 
GEE,  prominent  members  of  the  Tammany  Society.  Mr.  Allen  became  in 
after-years  Mayor  of  the  city. 

(u)  Page  173.— Signorina  GARCIA,  then  attached  to  her  father's  opera 
company,  soon  after  to  become  the  world-renowned  and  lamented  cantatrice 


THE  CROAKERS. 

(1)  Page  253.— A  signature  adopted  by  Halleck  and  Drake,  from  an 
amusing  character  in  Goldsmith's  comedy  of  "  The  Good-natured  Man," 
and  attached  to  a  series  of  verses  appearing  from  time  to  time  in  the  New- 
York  Evening  Post,  and  in  other  periodicals,  in  and  after  the  month  of 
March,  1819.     The  letters  H.  and  D.  represent  the  names  of  Fitz-Greene 
Halleck  and  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  and  indicate  the  respective  authorship 
of  the  poems. 

(2)  Page  255. — FITZ  and  LANG,  the  names  abbreviated  of  Fitz-Greene 
Halleck  and  Dr.  William  Langstaff,  intimate  friends  of  the  writer,  and  in 
daily  intercourse  with  him.     The  latter  studied  medicine  with  Drs.   Bruce 
and  Romayne,  Drake  and  DeKay  being  fellow-pupils.     Langstaff  not  being 
successful  as  a  physician,  his  friend  Henry  Eckford  aided  him  in  establish- 
ing an  apothecary  and  drug  store  at  No.  360  Broadway,  which  business  he 
carried  on  for  many  years.     By  the  liberality  of  the  same  gentleman  Lang- 
staft  accompanied  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Drake  in  their  tour  through  Europe  in 
1818. 

(3)  Page  255.—"  Lady  MORGAN  and    Madame  DE  STAEL."— The 
"France"  of  the  one,  and  the  "French  Revolution"  of  the  other,  had 
been  recently  published. 

(4)  Page  256. — "  GUARDSMEN,"  the  Governor's  Guard. — A  company 
of  young  gentlemen,  in  scarlet  and  gold,  commanded  by  James  B.  Murray, 
then  an  active  and  able  young  merchant ;  in  after-life  an  alderman  of  the 
city,  and  among  her  most  public-spirited  magistrates. 

(5)  Page  256. — "  ALTORF." — A  drama  founded  on  the  tradition  of 
WilHam  Tell,  and  unsuccessfully  played  at  the  Park  Theatre.     Its  author, 
Miss  Fanny  Wright,  a  Scottish  lady,  was  for  a  time  a  public  lecturer  on 
morals  and  religion,  from  a  somewhat  infidel   point  of  view.     Her  chief 
theme  was  "just  knowledge,"  which  she  pronounced  "  joost  nolidge." 


378  NOTES. 

(6)  Page  256.—  "SPOONER  and  BALDWIN,"  editors  of  newspapers,  the 
one  in  Brooklyn,  the  other  in  New  York.     The  former  had  quoted  in  his 
columns  the  three  words  alluded  to  from  the  chorus  to  a  song,  to  the  tune 
of  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  gracing  a  comic  and  comical  opera,   entitled  the 
"  Saw-mill  " — the  work  of  Mr.  Micah  Hawkins,  a  merry  and  musical  genius 
from  Long  Island — performed  once,  and,  I  believe,  but  once,  at  the  Chatham 
Garden  Theatre. 

(7)  Page  256.— Chief- Justice  MARSHALL,  of  the  United  States  Supreme 
Court,  whose  recent  decision  had  denied  the  validity  of  the  New- York  State 
Insolvent  Laws. 

(8)  Page  25  7.  —General  JACKSON,  since  President  of  the  United  States, 
on  his  first  visit  to  New  York.     At  the  dinner  with  which  he  was  welcomed 
(see  the  "  Secret  Mine  ")  by  the  Tammany  Society,  its  Grand  Sachem,  Mr. 
Mooney,  eloquently  assured  him  that,  at  the  announcement  of  his  intended 
visit,  the  hearts  of  its  members  had  "expanded  to  explosion."     In  reply  to 
which  the  General  gave  as  a  toast,  "  De  Witt  Clinton,  the  Governor  of  the 
great  and  patriotic  State  of  New  York."    As  a  large  proportion  of  the 
guests  were  bitterly  opposed  to  Mr.  Clinton  in  politics,  a  compliment  so 
flattering  to  him  alike  surprised  and  annoyed  them.    The  gentlemen  named 
in  the  verses  were  all  prominent  leaders  in  the  two  adverse  parties,  and 
designated,  by  their  approval  or  non-approval  of  tile  toast,  their  party 
attachments. 

(9)  Page  257. —JOHN  WESLEY  JARVIS,  the  popular  portrait-painter  of 
the  day,  a  favorite  of  his  patrons  and  of  many  social  circles  for  his  genial 
drollery  of  song  and  story.     Most  of  the  portraits  of  our  officers,  civil  and 
military,  then  winning  honorable  distinction,  and  now  gracing  our  public 
halls  and  chambers,  we  owe  to  his  admired  and  admirable  pencil.     Hal- 
leek's  portrait,  painted  by  Jarvis  for  Dr.  DeKay  (now  in  the  possession  of 
Drake's  daughter,  Mrs.  Commodore  DeKay),  is  by  many  esteemed  the 
best  likeness  we  have  of  the  poet 

(10)  Page  257.— BARTHOLOMEW  SKAATS,  or  "  BARTY  SKAATS,"  as  he 
was  familiarly  known — superintendent  and  curator  of  the  City  Hall,  and 
for  many  years  crier  of  the  courts  which  were  held  in  the  old  City  Hall  in 
Wall  Street 

(n)  Page  260. — "ALECK,"  the  name  of  Alexander  Hamilton  abbre- 
viated, a  member  of  the  Legislature  at  the  time,  and  especially  opposed  to 
Mr.  Clinton ;  the  eldest  son  of  the  illustrious  soldier  and  statesman  of  the 
same  name,  whose  death,  a  few  years  previous,  in  the  duel  with  Colonel 
Burr,  had  put  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  in  mourning. 

(12)  Page  261. — Major-General  MORTON,  commanding  the  militia  of 
the  city. — In  dignity  and  courtesy,  a  worthy  representative  of  the  old 


NOTES.  379 

school,  and  retaining  in  many  respects  its  costume,   particularly  in   the 
arrangement  of  his  hair. 

(13)  Page  262. — CHARLES  KING. — The  lately  lost  and  lamented  presi 
dent  of  Columbia  College  ;  her  model  of  an  accomplished  scholar  and 
gentleman.  In  early  life  an  aide  to  a  military  commander. 

ROBERT  BAYARD. — A  young  officer  in  a  similar  military  position.  He 
was  one  of  the  firm  of  Le  Roy,  Bayard,  and  McEve'-s,  prominent  mer- 
chants of  New  York,  and  a  brother-in-law  of  the  late  General  Stephen  Van 
Rensselaer.  Mr.  Bayard  is  still  a  resident  of  this  city. 

(14)  Page  263. — "  SAMUEL  SWARTWOUT  "   (see  previous  note). — He 
was  for  a  time  the  proprietor  of  the  meadows  between  Weehawken  and 
Jersey  City. 

(15)  Page  264. — "Mr.  POTTER." — Then  exhibiting  his  powers  as  a  ven- 
triloquist in  Washington  Hall,  corner  of  Broadway  and  Chambers  Street, 
where  A.  T.  Stewart's  store  now  stands. 

(16)  Page   264.— LEVI    ROBBINS,  ERASTUS    ROOT,    PETER    SHARPS, 
OBADIAH    GERMAN,  and   EZEKIEL  BACON,  members   of  the  New- York 
Legislature,  and  leading  politicians. 

(17)  Page  265.— "ABRAHAM  B.  MARTLING."— The  proprietor  of  the 
Tammany-Hall  Hotel,  and  successor  of  Barty  Skaats  as  the  keeper  of  the 
City  Hall. 

(18)  Page  265.— SYLVANUS  MILLER,  Surrogate.— See  previous  note  to 
"  Fanny,"  on  page  374. 

(19)  Page   266. — "  WOODWORTH'S    CHRONICLE." — A    periodical    con- 
ducted by  that  popular  poet  for  a  brief  period. 

(20)  Page  266.— WILLIAM  COLEMAN.— The    editor  of  the  New-York 
Evening  Post     He  died  during  the  summer  of  1829. 

(21)  Page  267. — Mrs.  JOHN  BARNES  appeared  for  the  last  time  in  Phila- 
delphia, July  25,  1851,  as  Lady  Randolph,  which  character  she  sustained 
with  almost  undiminished  excellence. 

(22)  Page  267. — Miss  CATHERINE  LEESUGG,  afterward  Mrs.  James  H. 
Hackett  and   Mrs.   Barnes.      As  ladies  and  actresses,   well  meriting  thfl 
poet's  eulogiums,  and  highly  estimated  in  public  and  private  life. 

(23)  Page  267. — OLLIFF,  etc. — Actors  of  meritin  various  departments  of 
their  profession. 

(24)  Page  268.— The  national  painting,  "The  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
dence," by  Colonel  Trumbull. 

(25}  Page  269.— JACOB  SHEERED.— A  wealthy  painter  and  glazier. 
17 


380  NOTES. 

(26)  Page  270. — A  public  meeting  concerning  the  enlargement  of  the 
Battery,  over  which    Lewis    Hartman,  a  politician   of  some   note,    and 
Charles  King,  presided.    Thomas  R.  Mercein  and  Robert  Bogardus  weie 
lawyers  of  distinction,    James  Lent   was    city    Register,    and    Edward 
McGaraghan  a  magistrate. 

(27)  Page  272. — NATHANIEL  PRIME. — A  wealthy  and  worthy  banker  of 
the  house  of  Prime,  Ward  &  Sands,  in  Wall  Street. 

(28)  Page  273. — RUFUS  KING,     then  recently  chosen  United-States 
Senator  from  the  State  of  New  York,  an  eminent  statesman  and  diplomatist 

(29)  Page  273.—"  Mr.  HAMILTON'S  LETTER."— See  previous  note  for 
that  gentleman's  position. 

(30)  Page  276. — "THE  SURGEON-GENERAL." — An  office  held  by  Doctor 
Mitchill. — See  previous  references  to  him. 

(31)  Page  277. — See  previous  note  to  "  Fanny,"  page  374. 

(32)  Page  278. — JOHN  MINSHULL. — An  Englishman  by  birth,  who  was 
a  butt  of  the  critics  of  the  day.     His  plays  were  performed  at  the  Park 
Theatre,  and  afterward  published. 

(33)  Page  279. — "  So  have  I  seen  in  gardens  rich  and  rare 

A  stately  cabbage  waxing  fat  each  day ; 

Unlike  the  lively  foliage  of  the  trees, 

Its  stubborn  leaves  ne'er  wave  in  summer  breeze, 

Nor  flower,  like  those  that  prank  the  walks  around. 

Upon  its  clumsy  stem  is  ever  found: 

It  heeds  not  noontide  heats,  or  evening's  balm, 

And  stands  unmov'd  in  one  eternal  calm. 

At  last,  when  all  the  garden's  pride  is  lost, 

It  ripens  in  drear  autumn's  killing  frost ; 

And  in  a  savory  sourkrout  finds  its  end, 

From  which  detested  dish,  me  Heaven  defend  !  " 

PAULDING'S  "  Backwoodsman,"  Book  II. 

(34)  Page  282. — "  CHARLEY  MACHEATH." — In  which  character  in  the 
Beggars'  Opera  the  celebrated  English  singer,  Mr.  Charles  Incledon,  dur- 
ing his  engagement  some  time  previous  at  the  Park  Theatre,  had  been 
favorably  received. 

(35)  Page  283. — WILLIAM  NIBLO. — The  proprietor  of  the  then  most 
popular  hotel  and  restaurant  in  New  York,  on  the  corner  of  William  and 
Pine  Streets,  and  still  a  highly-respected  resident  of  this  city. 

(36)  Page  283.— THOMAS  KILNER,  etc.,  etc.— Comedians  at  the  theatre. 


NOTES.  381 

The  three  latter  had  been  recently  engaged  in  England  by  Mr.  Simpson 
during  a  professional  visit  there. 

(37)  Page  284. — Mr.  LANG. — See  previous  notes.     The  words  in  italics 
are  quotations  from  his  paper,  The  New-  York  Gazette. 

(38)  Page  286. — "  FEDS,"  etc. — Theassumedor  imputed  titles  of  various 
party  factions  at  war  with  each  other. 

(39)  Page  288 . — JOHN  BARNES,  a  comedian  of  much  excellence,  the 
great  favorite  of  laughter-loving  audiences,  and  the  husband  of  the  lady 
mentioned  in  notes  21  and  22. 

(40)  Page  290.— TENTH- WARD  ELECTORS.— Those  composing  a  party 
in  opposition  for  a  short  time  to  the  regular  nominees  at  Tammany  Hall. 

(41)  Page  292.— The  Surgeon-General,  Doctor  SAMUEL  L.  MITCHILL. 

(42)  Page  303. — Mrs.  POPPLETON,  the  fashionable  confectioner  at  No. 
206  Broadway. 

(43)  Page  303. — Messrs.  CHRISTIAN,  china  and  glass  dealers  in  Maiden 
Lane. 

(44)  Page  304. — NATHANIEL  LEAVENWORTH. — A  young  gentleman  of 
fortune  and  fashion,  recently  returned  from  his  travels  abroad,  then  residing 
at  30  Greenwich  Street,  which,  strange  as  it  may  now  appear,  was  fifty 
years  ago  a  fashionable  place  of  residence. 

(45)  Page  306. — WILLIAM  COBBETT. — The  career  of  this  very  powerful 
writer  and  political  agitator,  here  and  in  England,  is  too  prominent  in  the 
records  of  both  countries  to  be  other  than  slightly  mentioned.     At  the  time 
of  the  appearance  of  the  verses,  he  was  a  resident  of  Hempstead,  Long 
Island. 

(46)  Page  306. — GEORGE    BARRINGTON,   the   celebrated    burglar  and 
light-fingered  gentleman.     The  line  is  said  to  have  been  written  by  him 
when  a  convict  at  Botany  Bay. 

(47)  Page  309.— The  FORUM.— See  previous  note.     Mr.  Hallett  and  Mr. 
Dey  were  young  lawyers.     Mr.  Dey  afterward  became  a  clergyman.     The 
career  of  Napoleon,  and  Turkish  social  life,  were  among  their  subjects  of 
debate. 

(48)  Page  311.— JAMES  L.  BELL,  the  High  Sheriff  of  the  County. 

(49)  Page  311.— ROBERT  DAWSON,  the  keeper    of  a  livery  stable  at 
No.  9  Dey  Street. 

(50)  Page  311. — A.  T.  GOODRICH  &  Co.,  booksellers  at  the  corner  of 
Broadway  and  Cedar  Street,  who  kept  a  popular  circulating  library'. 

(51)  Page  312. — CHESTER  JENNINGS,  the  lessee  of  the  City  Hotel,  os 
Broadway,  between  Cedar  and  Thames  Streets. 


382  NOTES. 

(52)  Page  314. — For  nearly  half  a  century,  Cato  Alexander  kept  a  house 
of  entertainment  on  the  old  post-road,  about  four  miles  from  the  City  Hall. 
It  was  the  fashionable  out-of-town  resort  for  the  young  men  of  the  day. 

(53)  Page  314. — The   Baron  VON  HOFFMAN. — An  adventurer  styling 
himself  a  Dutch  nobleman  of  high  distinction,  and  by  the  fashionable 
circles  courted  and  caiessed  accordingly,  until  detected  as  an  impostor. 
"A  fish  can  as  veil  live  out  of  water  as  I  can  live  out  of  de  ladies,"  was  a 
favorite  remark  of  the  bogus  baron,  who  came  very  near  winning  the  hand 
of  a  noted  New- York  belle  and  heiress.     Among  his  attempts  at  notoriety 
was  that  of  shooting  at  himself  with  the  wad  of  a  pistol.     He  soon  after  dis- 
appeared  from  New  York,  and  when  last  heard  from  was  at  Morrison's 
Hotel,  Dublin,  quietly  luxuriating  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame. 

(54)  Page  314. — Two  lamps,  or  gaslights,  are  always  placed  before  the 
door  of  the  house  occupied  by  a  Mayor  of  New- York  City. 

(55)  Page  316. — "  Mr.   GERMAN." — From    a  speech  of  his  when  a 
member  of  the  Legislature. 

(56)  Page  317.— JOHN  McLEAN.— A  judge  of  the  county  court  in  the 
town  of  "Junius,"  recently  appointed  by  Governor  Clinton. 

(57)  Page  319. — "  LINES   TO   Mr.  SIMPSON." — A  twofold  knowledge, 
that  of  the  then  acted  plays,  and  of  the  personal  peculiarities  of  the  political 
gentlemen  named,  is  requisite  for  the  understanding  and  enjoying  of  these 
verses.     For  many  of  the  names,  and  for  the  existing  Council  of  Appoint- 
ment, see  previous  notes.      Among  them,   Peter  R.   Livingston  was  dis- 
tinguished for  persuasive  and  genial  oratory,  Charles  Christian  and  James 
Warner  were  police  justices,  Pierre  C.  Van  Wyck  was  City  Recorder,  and 
Hugh  Maxwell  City  Attorney.     Barent  Gardenier  was  a  member  of  Con- 
gress.    He  was  renowned  for  a  time  as  an  eloquent  speaker,  and  is  noticed 
for  all  time  in  that  matchless  specimen  of  the  pleasantry  of  genius,  the 
"  Knickerbocker  "  of  Washington  Irving. 

The  "  STEAMBOAT  BILL." — The  members  who  had  voted  a  tax  on  passen- 
gers on  board  the  North- River  boats. 

(58)  Page  319. — JOHN  JOSEPH  HOLLAND,  the  scene-painter  of  the  theatre. 

(59)  Page  323. — CHRISTIAN  BAEHR,  a  fashionable  Wall-Street  tailor. 

(60)  Page  323. — STEPHEN  BATHS,  etc. ,  were  members  of  the  Legislature; 
TUNIS  WORTMAN,  etc.,  city  judges  and  lawyers  of  party  eminence. 

(61)  Page  328. — This  amusing  burlesque  address,  first  published  in  the 
New- York  Evening-  Post,  was   included  in  a  small  volume  containing  the 
Rejected  Addresses,  together  with  the  prize  address,  written  by  Charles 
Sprague,  and  spoken  by  Edmund  Simpson,  on  the  reopening  of  the  Park 
Theatre,  Septentber  ist,  1821. 


NOTES. 


383 


(62)  Page  329.— Messrs.  JOHN  K.  BEEKMAN  and  JOHN  JACOB  ASTOR 
were  joint  proprietors  of  the  Park  Theatre.     The  former,  from  his  love  of 
theatricals,  was  familiarly  known  as  "Theatre  Jack." 

(63)  Page  329. — ISAAC  JENNINGS,  was  a  well-known  dealer  in  old  clothes, 
and  GEORGE  SAUNDERS  was  a  fashionable  wig-maker. 

(64)  Page  330. — The  PRESIDENT,  James  Monroe,  had  a  short  time  pre- 
viously made  a  tour  through  the  Middle  and  Eastern  States. 

(65)  Page  330. — HENRY  MEIGS,  when  a  member  of  Congress,  had  advo- 
cated the  admission  of  Missouri  into  the  Union,  on  Southern  terms. 

(66)  Page  331. — WILLIAM  REYNOLDS,  the    proprietor  of  a    celebrated 
English  ale-house  in  Thames  Street,  in  the  rear  of  the  City  Hotel.     He  pro- 
nounced Mr.  Halleck  the  only  gentleman  that  ever  came  into  his  house, 
"because  he  never  interferes  with  my  fire." 

(67)  Page  333. — Mr.  BYRNE,  a  dancer  from  Paris,  was  performing  at  the 
Park  Theatre. 

(68)  Page  333. — Mr.  TURNER  and  Mr.  MAGENIS  were  public  lecturers  in 
the  rooms  of  the  City  Hotel. 

(69)  Page  334. — JAMES  W.  WALLACK  and  Mrs.  BARTLEY  were  great 
favorites  with  the  theatre-goers  of  that  day.     The  melologue  referred  to 
in  the  poem  was  written  for  Mrs.  B.  by  Thomes  Moore. 

(70)  Page  335. — Doctor  HORNE  and  Doctor  GIDEON  DE  ANGELIS,  well- 
known  advertising  physicians.     The    latter's  Four-herb  Pills  were    an- 
nounced as  a  panacea  for  all  the  diseases  that  flesh  is  heir  to. 

(71)  Page  338.— Captain  OGDEN  CREIGHTON,  an   officer    in  the  Brit- 
ish service,  and  a  brother  of  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  Creighton,  of  Tarrytown. 

(72)  Page  342.^-JoHN    R.    LIVINGSTON.— A  wealthy  gentleman,  who 
dispensed  liberal  hospitalities  both  at  his  city  residence  and  at  his  country- 
seat  on  the  Hudson.     Among  the  notabilities  whom  he  entertained  at  the 
latter  place  was  the  Prince  of  Saxe-Weimar,  who  visited  the  United  States 
in  i825-*26.     Mr.  Livingston  was  a  brother  of  the  Chancellor,  and  at  one 
time  a  member  of  the  New- York  Assembly. 

(73)  Page  342. — THOMAS  A.  COOPER. — The  celebrated  actor,  and  for  a 
time  manager  of  the  Park  Theatre.     His  daughter  married  a  son  of  Presi- 
dent Tyler,  who  gave  him  an  appointment  in  the  New-York  Custom-House, 
which  he  held  for  several  years. 

(74)  Page  342. — EDMUND  KEAN,  who  ranks  among  the  greatest  of  mod- 
ern actors,  second  only  to  Garrick  and  John  Philip  Kemble.     He  visited 


384  NOTES. 

the  United  States  in  1820  and  again  in  1825.  His  last  appearance  in  public 
was  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  London,  in  1833,  when  he  played  Othello 
to  the  lago  of  his  son  Charles,  but,  on  repeating  the  words  "Othello's  occu- 
pation's gone,"  he  sank  exhausted,  and  died  soon  after,  in  his  forty-sixth 
year. 

(75)  Page  342. — The  Right  Rev.  JOHN  HENRY  HOBART,  D.  D.,  who,  in 
1811,  was  elected  Bishop  of  the  Diocese  of  New- York,  and  was  consecrated  in 
Trinity  Church — where  a  full-length  effigy  of  him  is  to  be  seen — by  Bishops 
White,  Provost,  and  Jarvis.     His  episcopate  lasted  twenty-nine  years. 

(76)  Page  342. — PHILIP  BRASHER. — A  New- York  alderman,  a  member 
of  the  Legislature  for  eight  years,  and  a  noted  bon-vivant, 

(77)  Page  342.— JAMES  BUCHANAN.— For  many  years  British  Consul  at 
New  York,  and  bitterly  opposed  to  Queen  Caroline,  wife  of  George  the 
Fourth,  by  whom  he  was  appointed  to  his  office  through  the  influence  of  his 
friend  Lord  Castlereagh.     He  died  in  1851,  at  Montreal. 

(78)  Page  343. — HENRY  CRUGER,  a  native  of  New  York,  was  educated 
in  England,  where  he  became  a  successful  merchant,  and  was,  in  1774, 
elected  to  the  British  Parliament  as  the  colleague  of  Edmund  Burke.     He 
returned  to  his  native  land  on  a  visit  in  1783,  and  seven  years  later  became 
a  permanent  resident  of  this  city.     Upon  the  first  senatorial  election  after 
his  return,  he  was  chosen  to  the  State  Senate.     He  died  at  his  residence  in 
Greenwich  Street — then  a  fashionabk  locality — in  1827,  in  his  eighty-eighth 
year. 

(79)  Page  343. — MORGAN  LEWIS  held  many  honorabb  positions,  among 
which  were  those  of  Chief- Justice  of  the  State,  Governor,  and  the  command 
of  the  forces  destined  for  the  defence  of  New  York,  with  the  rank  of  Major- 
General.     In  1835  he  was  elected  President  of  the  New- York  Historical 
Society.     He  lived  to  the  same  age  as  Lord  Brougham,  of  whom  he  was  a 
great  admirer. 

(80)  Page  343. — MONTGOMERY  LIVINGSTONE,  a    son  of  the  gentleman 
whose  entertainment  is  described  by  the  poet. 

(81)  Page  343. — Captain  J.  R.  NICHOLSON,  a  gallant  officer,  who  served 
under  Decatur ;  like  Halleck,  a  bachelor,  and,  like  his  poet-friend,  always 
an  admirer  of,  and  admired  by,  the  ladies. 

(82)  Page  349.— JAMES  E.  DEKAY  was  educated  a  physician,  but  de- 
voted  himself  from  his  early  years  to  natural  history,  and,  in  the  State  Survey 
of  New  York,  the  Department  of  Zoology  was  assigned  to  him.     It  was 
through  Dr.  DeKay  that  Halleck  and  Drake  became  acquainted  in  the 
summer    of   1813.      He  died  August  8th,  1851,  at  his  residence,  Oyster 
Bay,  Long  Island. 


NOTES.  385 

(83)  Page  349.— Mrs.  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE,  wife  of  the  poet,  and 
daughter  of  Henry  Eckford,  the  celebrated  ship-builder,  of  New  York. 

(84)  Page  349.— Miss  ELIZA  McCALL,  a  young  lady  of  many  accomplish- 
ments, and  a  charming  singer,  who  was  much  admired  by  Halleck  and  Drake. 
Both  the  poets  wrote  songs  for  her.     The.  beautiful  lines  by  the  former, 
"The  world  is  bright  before  thee,"  were  written  for  Miss  McCall,  and 
Drake's  "  Yes,  Heaven  protect  thee,"  and  "  Though  fate  upon  this  faded 
flower,"  were  also  inscribed  to  the  same  young  lady. 

(85)  Page  352.— Doctor  DAVID  HOSACK.— See  previous  notes. 

(86)  Page  352. — The  college  was  originally  a  stable,  on  the  walls  of 
which  a  wag  of  a  student  inscribed  these  lines : 

"  Once  a  stable  for  horses, 
Now  a  college  for  asses." 

(87)  Page  352. — WILLIAM  HAMERSLEY,  Professor  of  Clinical  Medicine, 
whose  almost  universal  remedy  for  the  cure  of  pulmonary  consumption  and 
heart  disease  was  digitalis.     Hence  his  sobriquet. 

(88)  Page  352. — Dr.  MACNEVAN. — See  note  to  "  Fanny,"  page  371. 

(89)  Page  352. — Dr.  SAMUEL  L.  MITCHILL. — See  previous  notes. 

(90)  Page  354. — Baron  VON  HOFFMAN.     The  New- York  Evening  Post, 
of  June  12,  1823,  says :  "  Baron  Von  Hoffman  of  Sirony,  who  used  to 
serenade  our  ladies  with,  the  Tyrolese  air  so  merrily,  under  their  windows  in 
Broadway,  a  year  or  two  ago,  and  one  day  took  French  leave  of  them  all, 
now  shows  away  as  one  of  the  '  nobility  and  persons  of  distinction  in  Dub- 
lin.'"— Vide  also  note  to  the  Croakers,  No.  53. 

(91)  Page  354. — JAMES  BURNHAM  kept  a  famous  hostelry  on  the  Bloom- 
ingdale  road,  still  extant     Few  New  Yorkers  of  the  past  fifty  years  are  un- 
acquainted with  "Burnham's,"  which  was  for  many  years  as  well  known 
and  popular  as  Cato's,  already  referred  to  in  another  note. 

(92)  Page  355. — CARLO,  the  Baron's  colored  groom. 

(93)  Page  357. — The  NORTH  DUTCH  CHURCH. — The  only  fane  at  tl"- 
State  capital  that  could  then  boast  of  two  spires. 

(94)  Page  359. — The  "  Court  of  Death,"  which  the   Cpmmon  Council 
of  New  York  pronounced  an  effort  of  uncommon  genius,  deserving  the 
patronage  of  an  enlightened  public. 

(95)  Page  362. — JAMES  TALLMADGE,  of  Dutchess  County,  Lieutenant- 
Governor  of  the  State,  and  president  of  the  Senate,  afterward  appointed 
American  Minister  to   Russia.     "  Veracity  of  history,"  says  Hammond 


386  NOTES. 

in  his  Political  History  of  New- York,  "compels  me  to  state  that  in  no  part 
of  New  York  were  political  bargains  more  common  than  among  some  of  the 
politicians  of  Dutchess  County,  and  that  Mr.  Livingston  (Peter  R.),  and 
Mr.  Tallmadge  (James),  were  prominent  party  leaders  in  that  county." 

(96)  Page  362.— CLARKSOX  CROLIUS,  Speaker  of  the  State  Assembly  at 
Albany,  and  for  many  years  Grand  Sachem  of  the  Tammany  Society. 

(97)  Page  363. — Colonel  CHARLES  G.  HAINES  and  the  others  mentioned 
were  zealous  and  devoted  partisans  of  De  Witt  Clinton. 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES. 


AGAIN  ye  come,  again  ye  throng  around  me 62 

Ah,  Chloe  !  no  more  at  each  party  and  ball 294 

A  Lady  asks  the  Minstrel's  rhyme 66 

All  honor  to  woman,  the  sweetheart,  the  wife 227 

A  sword,  whose  blade  has  ne'er  been  wet 57 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent 13 

Avaunt !  arch-enemy  of  fun  255 

Awake !  ye  forms  of  verse  divine 268 

Beside  the  nuptial  curtain  bright 55 

Captain  Weeks,  your  right  hand — though  I  never  have  seen  it 290 

Come,  shut  up  your  Blackstone,  and  sparkle  again 296 

Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven 46 

Dear  Ma'am,  we  seldom  take  the  pen 300 

Dear  ****,!  am  writing  not  to  you,  but  at  you 95 

Dear  Simon  !  Prince  of  pastry-cooks 303 

Dear  Simpson,  since  the  day  is  near 319 

Dear  Sir,  you've  heard  that  Mr.  Robbin 264 

Dreaming,  last  night,  of  Pierre  Van  Wyck 345 

Enlightened  as  you  were,  you  all  must  know 328 

Eyes  with  the  same  blue  witchery  as  those 60 

Fair  lady,  with  the  bandaged  eye ! 311 

Fanny  was  younger  once  than  she  is  now 101 

Farewell,  farewell  to  thee,  Baron  von  Hoffman 354 

Goddess !  for  such  thou  art,  who  rules 335 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee 34 

Hail,  warbling  harbinger  of  Spring 224 

He  hath  been  mourned,  as  brave  men  mourn  the  brave 87 

Here,  Dickens  !  go  fetch  my  great  coat  and  umbrella 270 


388 


INDEX  TO   FIRST  LINES. 


PAGB 

Her  Leghorn  hat  was  of  the  bright  gold  tint 53 

Her  side  is  in  the  water 203 

His  shop  is  a  grocer's — a  snug,  genteel  place 193 

Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race 18 

How  dare  you,  Sir,  presume  to  say 273 

How  stately  yon  palace  uplifts  its  proud  head 352 

Ifon  the  deathless  page  of  Fame 315 

I  have  been  every  night,  whether  empty  or  crowded 282 

Illustrious  autocrats  of  taste  ! 337 

I'm  a  friend  to  your  theatre,  oft  have  I  told  you 266 

In  all  that  Genius  calls  its  own 239 

In  her  island  home,  her  home  of  flowers 240 

It  is  a  boy  whom  fourteen  years  have  seen 177 

I  turned  a  last  look  to  my  dear  native  mountain 247 

I've  greeted  many  a  bonny  bride 249 

Johnny  R  *  *  *  gave  a  dinner  last  night 343 

Lady,  although  we  have  not  met 64 

Lady,  I  thank  you  for  your  letter 222 

Maid  of  the  sweet,  engaging  smile  215 

Mild  beamed  the  sun's  departing  ray 236 

Moorland  and  meadow  slumber 212 

Mr.  Clinton,  whose  worth  we  shall  know  when  we've  lost  him 326 

Mr.  Hogbin, — I  work  as  a  weaver — of  rhyme 331 

Mr.  Philipp's  has  gone — and  he  carries  away  with  him 288 

My  dear  Recorder,  you  and  1 161 

Oh !  bard  of  the  West,  hasten  back  from  Great  Britain 278 

Oh !  Mitchill,  lord  of  granite  flints 276 

Oh !  Peace,  ascend  again  thy  throne 286 

Oh  !  where  are  now  the  lights  that  shed 333 

Pride,  boast,  and  glory  of  each  hemisphere  ! 306 

Still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 70 

Strangers,  your  eyes  are  on  that  valley  fixed 41 

Strong  as  that  power  whose  strange  control 231 

Sweet  boy !  before  thy  lips  can  learn  84 

Sweet  maid !  whose  life  the  frost  of  destiny 217 

The  Board  is  met,  the  names  are  read 257 

The  harp  of  love,  when  first  I  heard 199 

The  knights  of  the  firkin  are  gathered  around t<;i 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  389 


The  man  who  frets  at  wordly  strife 280 

The  man  who  wears  a  brazen  face 298 

The  Scottish  Border  Minstrel's  lay 228 

The  song  that  o'er  me  hovered  ...    209 

The  songs  were  good,  for  Mead  and  Hawkins  sung  'em 259 

The  Surgeon-General  by  brevet 292 

The  winds  of  March  are  humming *97 

The  world  is  bright  before  thee 4° 

There  are  laurels  our  temples  throb  warmly  to  claim 213 

There  is  a  beast  sublime  and  savage 347 

There  is  a  gloom  on  every  brow 35^ 

There  is  an  evening  twilight  of  the  heart 36 

There's  one  who  long  will  think  of  thee 242 

There's  magic  in  the  robe  of  power 323 

The  world  is  not  a  perfect  one 34° 

They  came — a  life-devoting  band 245 

The  tea-urn  is  singing,  the  tea-cups  are  gay 349 

Thou  com'st,  in  beauty,  on  my  gaze  at  last 30 

'Tis  o'er — the  fatal  hour  has  come 3°8 

To  Tallmadge  of  the  Upper  House 362 

'Twas  in  the  solemn  midnight  hour 219 

We  do  not  blame  you,  Walter  Bowne 89 

We  twine  the  wreath  of  honor 93 

We  sat  us  down  and  wept 38 

We've  twined  the  wreath  of  honor 284 

When  Bony  fought  his  host  of  foes 261 

When  Misery's  tear  and  Sorrow's  sigh 233 

When  the  tree  of  Love  is  budding  first 51 

When  the  wild  waters  from  the  deluged  earth 359 

Where  dwells  the  Drama's  spirit  ?  not  alone 200 

Where  flows  the  fountain  silently 244 

Wild  Rose  of  Alloway !  my  thanks 23 

Within  a  rock,  whose  shadows  linger 213 

Your  hand,  my  dear  Junior !  we're  all  in  a  flame 271 


FITZ-  GREENE  HALLECK'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

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A  Short  History  of  Natural  Science  and 
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FROM  THE  TIME  OF  THE  GREEKS  TO  THE  PRESENT  DAY. 
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THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


W 


NOV  2  9  1978  REC'D 


100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


PS1780.A2  1882 


3  21 06  00206  9547 


